This sentence will be terminated shortly.
Sooner than you can think.
It is gone.
That’s how life gets written up.
It’s a service for those who are curious.
Proboscis people, who must be in the know.
That’s what Latin is for, isn’t it?
Then read on, this road is wrong,
Or cropped legs can take us only so far.
So it is written, slow it is done.
We scratch our thoughts from our heads,
And scribble in caves.
Now we encode our sweet tomb,
With pictures that are not autistic,
But just as clever and as if they were.
Today screens print, not silk screens
But these hand held glassed screens.
We pour or broadcast ideas like confetti.
And no one picks up on them.
It’s really fruitless.
It’s really, move along there’s nothing
Here to see.
Meanwhile, someone, somewhere
Is quoted and someone else a bit richer.
And as the tent pegs of life are pulled up,
The final clause is written,
This sentence is complete.
Oh. . . and had you any change to spare
Would you have handed it to the writer?
C 2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved