The world is one typographical error
It's like a puzzle,
poet and time.
Where one used to balance the square,
another now circles.
Like a carrion bird,
he survives, in the bomb craters,
and sideways alleys.
A new age brings a new type,
profundity and perfuctory,
or a paroxism and paradigm.
hand in the others coat,
to keep fresh, to keep warm
What one has built and abandoned,
the new poet destroys to feeds on.
Nothing is eternal
Its allways being proof read.
The world is one typographical error,
In time, his fingers, crane-like and hungry,
inconsistently try to correct.
But every language has its soul,
and every soul has his voice,
lost in translation.
poem by Jerome Moore
Added by Poetry Lover
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