Reading T.S. Eliot has had at least one effect. I’ve taken a break from writing about love.
Eliot wrote about the big things. Faith. Despair. The sweep of history. The spirit of the age. Weaving in references to the best expressions of Western civilization … and beyond. Whatever you think of him, he was a serious fellow.
Not claiming this little poem is like Eliot, or in the same league. But it does come out of a heart and mind that has been reading him. It’s not a “silly love song.” It’s a stab at being serious.
A worm works through the apple of us all,
A mold grows slowly over all our work,
Our vaunted gleaming towers all will fall
As delegates palaver jackals lurk.
Anesthetized within our paneled homes,
Believing what has been will always be,
With weariness we author countless tomes
That give not wisdom nor help us to see.
A dust has settled over all the land,
Our wise men jabber loudly on the wall.
As good is named for evil, good is banned,
In silent shadows meanwhile serpents crawl.
This proud and stiff-necked people shall not stand.
The tribes of earth shall marvel at its fall