the jungle writes over the acts of man
without rage or animus
but with infinite patience
growing one vine at a time
a cracked brick will be clay again in due time
grand palaces will become strange mounds
only the crease of a cornerstone,
hidden in the shadows,
to betray the grandiosity beneath
not even Alexander the Great escaped being overwritten
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
