The WordA Poem by David Lewis PagetIt’s only a week since I raised my head From the depths of my favourite book, The final tale in my library And my basic foundations shook. It had been so long since the world went wrong And I fled from the things I heard, To hide my head with the living dead, And lose myself in The Word.
For the printed word is a friend of mine Its sentiments never change, It’s comforting when you read a rhyme That no-one can rearrange. No matter how many have read it once The story will still suffice, You know that the ending will be the same When you come back to read it twice.
But the world outside, it seems had died With its people all grown cold, There was nothing left I could recognise From the world that I’d left of old. There wasn’t a smile on a single face Or a humorous moment left, There seemed a general loss of grace With everything so correct.
The money hangs from the tallest tree, Too high for us all to climb, This world is new, belongs to the few It certainly isn’t mine. Another stabbing, another death Is all that I read out here, And populations take to the boats As millions live in fear.
Small wonder then, I wander the streets To look for a library, In the search for a book I’ve never read On the way that it used to be. A former time when the world was mine I’ll find it, by hook or crook, For distant smiles and a woman’s wiles I’ll bury my head in a book.
David Lewis Paget © 2015 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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Added on May 9, 2015Last Updated on May 9, 2015 Tags: foundations, printed, money, correct Author
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