Where is Kerouac
with his crafty knack
to praise a rucksack,
and make it chief.
Where too, is Plato,
with questions aglow,
and answers as foe
to real belief.
Seems my lost and found
is no longer bound,
to hold onto sound
thinkers of worth.
My altar-like shelf
has emptied itself,
and just like myself
needs a rebirth.
I seek to ponder,
but books no longer
make me feel stronger,
or ease the load.
I search for the time,
when answer was rhyme,
and words were sublime
instead of code.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.06 seconds at 7:12am on Nov 13, 2024 via server WEBX1.