[So this is a poem that I wrote in a blotter-book of random scribblings at the age in thirteen alongside about twelve stickmen, a penis, some drawings of trees and the sun and other predictable thirteen year old poetry that isn't making the cut. I don't quite understand the title. I can only assume it was some sort of attempt to write the only poem needed.]
We strive to die.
For what is life but the frantic fumblings of a miser in an emptying vault?
In front of us, adolescence. Beyond us, adulthood. Stretched far ahead, skeletons.
We aim to achieve, but to what end?
A statue of a passed-on leader and a scrawled on piece of paper are equally valueless.
For on the sands of infinite time, a castle with a billion polished windows of crystal is as worthless as a large ball of saliva hurled onto the same eternal dirt.
The land forgets what's on it, the sea cannot place what used to sail on it and the sky is blind to the difference between bird, aeroplane and space shuttle.
Just as the universe doesn't give a shit about poetry.
