Eyes bursting with anticipation
of metamorphosis, with the
temptation of apotheosis.
Curious, obsessed, so desperately
needful, burning with the worm
of denial.
They wrote in constant fevers,
uncountable reams upon reams
of verse describing maple trees
in the northern latitudes
turning scarlet in late November
rather than in mid-September,
as though this would magically
delay, if not eradicate, all death.
The result of this?
Look for yourself.
Built of fog and clouds,
hubris is scattered quite quickly
once it touches the earth.
David Kowalczyk
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ancient-poets/
