a poem

The seeds have been sewn
The lights have been shown
I stay away from palindromes
It's a new day for metronomes
We ease from this earth
Find our self worth
The moments that are lost
Melt away like the frost
It turns into dew
And I bid you adieu

Sorry to all the metrophobes who may have shrunk away from this. I just felt inspired. I remember the Chinese poetry class I took in college. Their jobs were to sit under tress and write poetry. They would laugh and drink wine, take naps and breathe language. I have often wondered what the equivalent is in these times we live in. Perhaps that is a tradition that was done in by people who could never dream. The envy was too much so they stopped squashing the grapes and cut down the trees. No more dreams they screamed and burned the paper reams. See, sometimes it's infectious like a curious disease. Is it still a disease if it makes your life better?