The Writers
The things of childhood reach forward
to drag me tragically back to them
and it is not so impossible to imagine
why the writers created time travel
and made up a fourth dimension
for the scientists to chase after
The wonders of the future reach backward
to pick at my ravaged, scavenged dreams
and suddenly it is understandable
why the writers created the future
and left us, the little ones, behind
to think about how to catch up
The idle tinkerings of the present ignore you
as if, to exist, you must lose your substance
and it all makes so much sense now
why the writers and their work is dying
because the children refuse to think
while someone else can do it for them
poem by Poet Dragon
Added by Poetry Lover
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