In this matrix everything was new,
Young,
Naive,
Hopeful,
Wistful,
Only a few imps played about.
All about the poets danced their pens,
Everywhere everywhere were their secret gardens,
Full of gemstones all tucked away,
Glittering glittering bright.
The world was crossed with them,
Neither mattered country nor creed,
The words poured between,
Quiet little treasures of humanity.
Soon enough the matrix grew up,
Bridge trolls eyeing pots of gold,
jewels are not their thing,
Gold, only gold.
They dug up the gardens and laid them waste,
The jewels buried in the rubble dissolved in the rain,
Sugar-baubles washed away away,
Ephemeral.
A few gardens survive,
Oases in a hard-paved desert,
Only a token away from the trolls' destruction,
When the last piece of gold has gone.
Who will tell the story of the Golden Age,
Will the world even remember when the poets wrote the world,
Their names and their names,
Or even their bones?
A scribe we need,
To cage the Golden Age,
Bottle it up for all to see and remember,
When the electric fields and we were young.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 06/10/2017
Author's note:
We're at a unique time and place in history. Many of us here witnessed the birth of the internet...and with it, internet poets.Too often, when a website goes down for lack of funding, the poetry goes with it. The poets, like all people, age and pass. It strikes me that the last twenty years has been a sort of golden age for internet poetry. The web has grown soooo commercial. The sharks circle the heavens, and there are ghost towns strewn about like after the wild, wild West was no longer young. If this era and these things aren't chronicled in some way, this literary history could be lost; Dandelion seeds on the Summer winds. There is a reason the Beat Poets and the Romantics are remembered. Their works were put down on something more permanent than electrons on chips. Their history and legends were chronicled, their works made available to the public. I wonder of ours.
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