Out of our lines
Each morning the marks are
scrawled deeply in the sand
Counting the scrapes to
know the end of days.
The lines are drawn
upon the land
Come eve the creatures
in the lines lay
By dawn they scratch
anew the lines
Knowing not why
they nightly erase.
These are indeed
drawing times and
artists sure make poor
seers as over and over
the lines they trace.
this is the end.
this is the end.
No comments:
Post a Comment