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Array
(
[sid] => 155734
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => And the gods railed in vain
[time] => 2009-12-08 08:22:36
[hometext] => Just some random thoughts...
[bodytext] => Tonight poetry sleeps Not in a gritty-eyed, drool on the pillow sense Not in any somnabulistic manner No, tonight art sleeps in finality Calm syllables of coldhot, harshsmooth, of life Words have been sent, spent, without regard Uttered feigning some mystic connection or understanding As if the utterances were life itself Life isn't words; happy, angry or even useful Not now, not ever, Nor will we make it so We use words as life, we live life in words We are not gods, we are but victims of life We blithely spit and sputter all our interpretations Knowing yet ignoring any semblance of reality Tossing out banter and dialogue as the cause of life And all it causes is disruption and discontent in life Life refuses to be words as if it recognizes futility Just as the essnce seems to captured in verse Another victim stutters his final syllables And life shuns them, lets them fall unheralded and unheeded Life and poetry... such strange bedfellows Life goes on, being what it will be to whomever has it Poetry falls, where it will remains there It needs life to go on but life will never have it Despite any need, real or perceived Everything, which life is, is not poetry Poetry tries so hard, but ends up as tired And being so tired, it lays itself and succumbs Life is long, the whims of man short How is it we dare claim control, even for an instant The soil upon which we tread is too soon our bed Where the man and uterances shall sleep...coldly...quietly [comments] => 2 [counter] => 187 [topic] => 25 [informant] => reprobate [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => MiscPoems )
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