Patti Masterman

No Cure

We are the leaden statues,
Who creak the world with comings and goings.
Fate lies ponderous beneath our feet,
Our will of basalt, grip of iron.

Our pasts rise high, like a mountain range
That obscures well the clouded future;
They say we're divine, the offspring of gods-
Or else a rust, on worn-out sutures.

Submitted: Friday, June 20, 2014

Topic of this poem: aging

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Comments about this poem (No Cure by Patti Masterman )

  • Freshman - 1,738 Points Smoky Hoss (6/24/2014 7:52:00 PM)

    ... this is what I love 'bout yer poems! ... makes me ponder, from the soul... I like it. (Report) Reply

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