Truly we live apart from greatness
in a world in darkness
observing the light dimming
between the fabric of the windows.
We choose, to hate, to scoff at good things.
We depart, leaving common senses.
No more than primates like our theories
we remain observing the bookshelves,
the dust.
The noble furniture is torn,
the silver plates, stolen.
So too do we consider life--
a survival of our greed, the ego.
If you must take, remember,
someone else might have needed too.
Alas, the words of poetry remain
in the air above an unplayed piano.
All the good things in life, in wisdom,
are like mountains in lonely valleys.
A gardener is here and gone--
the roses sleep beneath the dirt,
the seeds awaiting love.
-V I L L A N U E V A
06.27.22
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