Isn’t it strange
That the ones who inspire me
Love not poetry.
So shrug when I weave my rhymes,
So nod to sleep as my words chimes,
To them, words are soundless mayhems.
Why not think in sensible terms,
The bridges, the trains, and the spaceship to the moon,
It wasn’t art in the living things,
It’s the mechanism of human beings.
Heed this then.
Metal gears shall fray,
Numbers may betray
Theories rust away before eyes,
The Circle turns to its tail and dies.
Then tangent to my heart,
Where statistics cannot lie,
There once was a me
And once was a you.
I used to destroy my arts/poems, thinking since I made them I can do anything to them as I please. But the art of mine took a life of their own, destroying them is like throttle the life out of some fragile creatures. The guilt hunts me.
I shouldn't buy into the idea that art is useless. This is to eulogize my lost art pieces and lost times.
