Scant scribbles writ on disused pages

Long lost memories of ages

Holding sadnesses and rages:

But who now understands them?

And who now reads or scans them?

They lie there, wasting, writing, dying,

Emptied of meaning, outside of time,

Filling a vestigial storehouse and lying

There cold and unfeeling and unfelt by life.

All through the Earth’s long building

Its empires and their rescindings

There have been lost arts living:

And who now searches for them?

Who now listens?  Who cares?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I was thinking along the same lines as Shelley's "Ozymandias" when I wrote this one... I tried to put my own spin on it so it wasn't a pointless redundant poem though.

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figitifigitifigitifigitifigitifigitifigitifigitifigit's picture

hey! i for one like reading "scant scribbles writ on disused pages"... i think some people call this kind of thing a 'book' or something? anyway, this poem is alright, but it doesnt have enough action. i think the books need to attack their readers... you know, like clamp shut on their noses or something. that would rock.