Bubbling Springs Atop The Hill
Posted: September 6th, 2011, 6:33 pm
Over the hill poets
And the haters of rhyme
Never having crest the ridge
Having no hills to climb
Always watching the clock
Ever short on their time
Streets, halls, stairs and doors
To the left, or right, up and down
Betting short lives on a rat race
Rising water in a low lying town
The ridge top poets
Bubbling springs atop the hill
Flowing down both sides
Making rhyme as they spill
Words flowing into a dirty river
Lost in murky waters having no appeal
Deemed inappropriately archaic
From a fast forgotten age
Words washed away by dirty water
Fouling the pen scratched page
Low lying town poets
And the rhyming words they criticize
Waiting to be washed far away
While watching the water rise
Heeding not the downward flow
In the place of their own demise
All the while being washed down river
Cursing the rhymes scratched by a pen
Barely treading deep murky water
They find themselves sinking in
Poets critical of one another
Down hills and rivers they go
Cursing the ones still climbing
And all they will come to know
Those who remain atop the hill
Never criticizing individual flow
Ever watching it all go downstream
By bubbling springs, taking their time
Always tolerant of those still climbing
With pen upon paper scratching a rhyme
And the haters of rhyme
Never having crest the ridge
Having no hills to climb
Always watching the clock
Ever short on their time
Streets, halls, stairs and doors
To the left, or right, up and down
Betting short lives on a rat race
Rising water in a low lying town
The ridge top poets
Bubbling springs atop the hill
Flowing down both sides
Making rhyme as they spill
Words flowing into a dirty river
Lost in murky waters having no appeal
Deemed inappropriately archaic
From a fast forgotten age
Words washed away by dirty water
Fouling the pen scratched page
Low lying town poets
And the rhyming words they criticize
Waiting to be washed far away
While watching the water rise
Heeding not the downward flow
In the place of their own demise
All the while being washed down river
Cursing the rhymes scratched by a pen
Barely treading deep murky water
They find themselves sinking in
Poets critical of one another
Down hills and rivers they go
Cursing the ones still climbing
And all they will come to know
Those who remain atop the hill
Never criticizing individual flow
Ever watching it all go downstream
By bubbling springs, taking their time
Always tolerant of those still climbing
With pen upon paper scratching a rhyme