The Third Stone

Strange creatures, beautiful creatures
Tough in each fold of the brain
Alike in blood, origin, and experience
An ant army of epic proportions,

Blindly following one another.
Except, not black dot’s, but instead,
Nucleus walled people. Gradually ceasing
To acknowledge their existence, becoming

Ranchers without land.
Commanders without infantry,
Horsemen on foot.
How will they survive?

And sometimes in the uncontrollable
Place below my thoughts, it emerges
Not as a feeble minded thought,
But as a conviction

We weren’t meant to.

poem by Tyler Comstock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!