The lamp post on the corner
Strikes the eye
And glows within the mind
And sticks like glue upon the page
That turns within the night
And opens when the sun
Appears around the edge
Of what we call the earth.

Are these memories
A mark of what we are?

Or are we simply cogs in bigger wheels
That turn with ever faster
Conflagrations burning with the passion
Sired within the writhing bodies of
And orgy turning toward the essence
Of the human race?

Will we win this race or will be simply
Fade from images that paste themselves
Upon the walls of primal caves?

The answer may be gidden in the caverns
Found within our brains that suck the
Air and burn the food tha twe so
Dearly work to grow and get and buy.

(c) 1987 James Oliver Smith, Jr