I’ve been writing this poem
for three years now.
The buildup to a cataclysmic revelation
the understanding that, yes, we are a perfect race.
The knowledge of a people so wide,
it will be carved into minds and taught to stone
until the end of time.
But you cannot change
the way people sip their wine.
Cannot comprehend the understanding
of the earth to the sun as she sets.
Where ballet slippers break the dancers,
not the other way around. Where the
deepest oceans are left empty,
where predator and prey both fail
and love is a prospect of fantasy;
beautiful, and you wish it to be true
but something only beautiful, real, and forever
in fairy-tale books.
written by those
who cannot find their voice.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 11:31 PM UTC
I’ve been writing this poem
for three years now.
The buildup to a cataclysmic revelation
the understanding that, yes, we are a perfect race.
The knowledge of a people so wide,
it will be carved into minds and taught to stone
until the end of time.
But you cannot change
the way people sip their wine.
Cannot comprehend the understanding
of the earth to the sun as she sets.
Where ballet slippers break the dancers,
not the other way around. Where the
deepest oceans are left empty,
where predator and prey both fail
and love is a prospect of fantasy;
beautiful, and you wish it to be true
but something only beautiful, real, and forever
in fairy-tale books.
written by those
who cannot find their voice.