In the twittering
of starlings, the nightingale's
song is sadly lost.
The loudest trumpet
is heard by all and sundry,
its notes sourly flat.
Hold your image high,
call others to your standard:
surface is content.
Your scribbled pages
will rot in time, potsherds are
posterity's choice.

Comments
Sean McNulty | November 27, 2009 - 19:10
like it a lot. beating my chest in the pessimistic joy of it
chuck | November 27, 2009 - 20:13
Nice. I will now sit back and watch it slip into oblivion.