Evolution

One fears losing their voice in modern times
Then struggles to find how to speak again

All the good words are gone, used up, lifeless
A long list of trite, clichéd, archaic
Cast offs, rubble, detritus of written prose
Left in the aftermath of former works

Pretty no more, pitted obscenities
Like gems that have lost their facets to age
Look no more for stones lost in grains of sand
No glinting treasure is left there to sift

Change metaphors but say more of the same
Poetry compared to wheat or to chaff
Let reader understand all of this game
Prose, is a living thing grown on life's staff

And there is my dilemma

I stand in fields of wasting straggled corn
With nothing to sew in the worn out soil
More's the pity, for I would plant a seed
Tis' time to renew the land, clear the field

Compost dead and dying, then add some manure
Gleaned from pastures trod in your wanderings
Let rains of enlightenment bring verdure
Where grain grown with hard laboring springs

But I would have fruit, objects that shine
All of this and more, I want to be mine
And there is another dilemma, curse of man
We always want more than fits in the hand

So adieu, before I start to bore you
I have all I can possibly carry
My only wish in the writing of this
Is to give as well as take, thanks, Harry