Oh, but on the stoops of lives
The catapults sit
Ready to pounce
And cast away ideas
That first drove them to swinging their arms,
Flailing in the wind,
Casting to the clouds all that was before them.
Ideas are forced onto a road
That is dreamt into nothingness,
Pushed to extinction
By virtue of the place it has held
In the minds of society.
The stoops exist
As did the road
But they, too,
Become a blur
As they join the thoughts
That were cast high in the sky
And tossed away from the creators of the thoughts,
Lost somewhere between
Command of “Pull!”
And the innocent wisping of the rope
As it dangles from the top part
Looking back down on the stoop
Where its wooden parent sits.
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Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
Marty Reep 