a poem for our generation (untitled)
I didn't mean for this to rhyme, since most poems I write don't, but oh well.
First draft. Please comment:
Sara drinks coffee over carved gods
and a broken religion. She tells me
she's an insomniac;
she tells me she's the last egyptian.
Our Fathers wear the 60's
like a chip on their shoulders.
We wear technology
like so many soldiers.
And while Kiki covers scars
as she waits for revolution,
Mary swallows Sara's pills
in the blue smoke of execution.
Oh, and you are are out there searching
for the ghost in the machine,
while I fill up new pages
to capture what this means.
First draft. Please comment:
Sara drinks coffee over carved gods
and a broken religion. She tells me
she's an insomniac;
she tells me she's the last egyptian.
Our Fathers wear the 60's
like a chip on their shoulders.
We wear technology
like so many soldiers.
And while Kiki covers scars
as she waits for revolution,
Mary swallows Sara's pills
in the blue smoke of execution.
Oh, and you are are out there searching
for the ghost in the machine,
while I fill up new pages
to capture what this means.