THE LANDMARK



	scarred tables

	names trickle down the walls 

	etched in oak

	made dark with time



	voices whisper 

	words just remembered 

	from when the wood was 

	clean and warm



	death's foulness' in the air 

	oak knows its life is done 

	its sending all its 

	ghosts away



	tomorrow modern men 

	will come 

	to tear the building down 

	and kill the past

	in their blundering way

	

		The Poet (of Joan C.)			

	



 

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