THE PILE
One darkened day as I lay dreaming
I came upon a junkyard of despair
I saw a pile of old decayed words
So rusty, no one cared
The pile of words was piled so high
I could not see the cloudy sky
And birds of prey gnawed at the edges
Revealing poems inside its wedges
They spoke of great beginnings and the wisdom to be had
In which all things depended on everyone’s enduring
Imagination.
The wind blew strongly then
It shuffled words into all truths
Of what I know not but I knew
They would not break or bend
The pile then moved away
To other junkyards in dismay
Who knows who else will see
It’s fault filled destiny
I know the pile will always be
In some ole dreamers dream
Scouring through the mounds of words
For poems and songs in some sun’s lighted beam
And maybe he will stop a while, and cogitate and learn
From old decayed rusty words
That seek protection from the birds and
Refuge from cold screaming tomes
That lie upon the pile of ole discarded poems.
Copyrights Noberto Franco Cisneros
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