For now, the map is where the mind must dwell

Though full of direct knowledge of her fellows
Whose eyes and faces are a script humane;
Though voices sing to him like Lobos’ cellos
In lack and loss and woe this man remains.

In times gone by, the voice and face sufficed.
Poets’ music seemed to us almost divine;
But now a subtle torture’s been devised
To write with pen and letters intertwined.

This man, though wise like cat or bear or owl,
Has failed in his acquaintance with the pen.
Nor does he have the words which politicians howl.
Nor can he re ad his list of sin.

For now, the map is where the mind must dwell
And of reality, no-one can tell.

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About Kate Thwaite

I love writing , conversation, art, wild flowers, music and air.And books
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