A Poem in Five Parts (After Reading George Steiner)

by mudrhetoric

I’m still young.
I can still do something.
How does one know?
Can they even?

Lost to the annals of history,
The mastery of Saint-Lubin’s Op. 42.
Huncke bumming about.
Knowing no one. Writing nothing.
Becoming something other than not.

Those things that don’t matter,
Matter to those that don’t.
In their own estimation,
They’re great
And forgotten.

You’ll die today.
What matter of tomorrow?
Or ever yesterday?
That someone knows your name.
Read your words.

The sun’ll still rise.
Glancing off snow drifts.
Underneath, the grass lies dormant.
And underneath still, Invidia.

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