Another passing moment <br />writes a line in the firmament <br />And the passing days <br />Write their own verse of phrases <br /> <br />Another passing year <br />Writes another stanza, <br />Of an episode <br />Whether an elegy or an ode <br /> <br />Every passing generation <br />a new chapter adds to the collection <br />Every passing age, <br />filling another volume of pages <br /> <br />Every thought and deed <br />known or hid, <br />that lived and living lives articulate, <br />hath but no exact duplicate; <br /> <br />a draft manuscript, <br />a record accurate and fair <br />without corrections, to keep <br />in a great library somewhere <br /> <br />A labor in quiet, silent and solemn <br />the never ending book of poems <br />being written without hands <br />and the imprints thereof burned <br /> <br />forever into memories <br />and left as evidence or legacies <br />For posterity? <br />Or to present one day? <br /> <br />The silent words may not always rhyme <br />Nor make sense <br />But then musical chimes <br />of a million spheres <br />make as much sense… <br />singin’ in the universe <br />…but then only to the author <br />or the composer <br />alone, perhaps?<br /><br />Lyre Bleus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/silent-pages/
