Untitled

We stack our sheaves of literature
High, to the stratus zone;
Their bulk depresses their elders down,
Below the waves of the known.
Some achieve a buoyancy
To float in dreamy daubs
That bob on the rim of cognizance,
Blow about like wind chime fobs.
They're adopted and adapted till
They've shrunk to myth; all matter
Has dissipated on zephyr-breaths--
What's left is meaningless patter.

Reviews

[willweb]

Sometimes it sure does feel that way and giving it more thought, most of the time it feels that way. Meaningless patter, what seems like a good piece of writing is nothing more than waste bin delicacy. At least it seems that was around here.