Age of Death

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“Age of Death”

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As we swing our doors open,

Wide to the age of the death of writers,

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I pick up a pen,

a typewriter,

an empty notebook,

a computer phone,

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and keep writing.

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Not because I have anything loud enough to be heard,

Over the chatter,

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But because,

In this world,

As true art slips into the shadows of something unreal,

I believe,

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If you look close enough,

Like a prospector, standing in cold water, sifting with both hands, and both eyes,

For things that are formed from a beating heart,

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Through pebbles, and grains of sand, stones, clay, and mud.

You will find,

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The most valuable thing in this world,

Alike the way time and pressure forms gold and diamonds,

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Is to be human.

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@PHiLo.poema {4/9/2024}