The Folly Poem by Anthony J. O.

The rank odors of our birth and our breath
Cut through the spines of the books we devour;
The phrases we adopt as our guides,
Our lights of wisdom,
The infantile concoctions of naïveté.
We are drawn into a circle,
Not tempted to escape.
We reap without sowing,
Defying the purpose of our self-imposed premise.
What good is a word in this wilderness?
What good a daydream?
What is a pinnacle on a foot of sand?
What have Aristotle and Whitman,
And The Bard and Trotsky done for you?
Long nights are spent unfertile and farcical,
Vain.
The verdict will reach us last,
While the fools had always seen it coming.
And that is the folly of the few;
Will we ever learn or is that not our intention?