I could have been a beating drum <br />on the ears of giants, <br />or a curled talon scratching <br />distinguished brows. <br /> <br />Our generation, an intonation, <br />was born a variation that <br />did not matter. <br />We were only kids <br />with sour opinions, <br />a virus spreading <br />from text to ear. <br />But the affliction was cured <br />when our fingers were severed. <br /> <br />The handless arm grasps no pens; <br />the tongueless mouth speaks no words. <br />So there is nothing to say, <br />just another Samizdat <br />put to deletion. <br />I am reminded in a nostalgic sigh of <br />how the world could have been. <br /> <br />Is this how the world ends? <br />This is how things are, <br />Questions about questions, <br />half-living mouths speaking.<br /><br />Matthew Thomas Donovan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sun-falls-west/
