Tomorrows Mendacity Poem by Paul Brookes

pages fall from the poem tree
so much confetti or shreds of time.
yesterdays words are the lies of tomorrow
eating up our days in squandering barrels ink
which leak blue black on white aspen leaves.

growing or not the mountain piles high,
volume after volume; some pie in the sky,
some forgotten, dust covered, they stay on the shelf.
some just a few a very few remain like beacons
cherished and worn universal truths.

men will always write of war,
women of pain but all will write of love.
the rats of the past, I sometimes think,
are gnawing on the eyes of the future.

we all leave as we entered
with whimpers and whispered goodbyes.
for truly the rats of the past will gnaw
on the eyes of the future.