Philosophy?
A rose by any other name would still be a flower
And flowers die, victims of time
Memories have the stereotype of being lasting
But who remembers that king who built those
Crumbling testaments in the desert
Testaments to his lasting fame
The puce lichens slowly wear the words away to dust
Another case-history of the feebleness of our work
Our arrogance is ever being put-down by
The wind that sweeps the dust across my porch
And the ivy that creeps over the walls
they gently make their fatal imposition
On my own ready-made autobiography
You will more than likely not remember me
when the last note of my swan-song fades
when my street disappears and my phone number
ceases to function
FictionPress.com - let the words flow
