And broke the backs of slaves to erect
A few, monumental phrases.
For awhile we slaughtered sheep
Stole their skins and inked
Our thoughts on their hides.
Then we ground
Thousands of splinters to pulp
For mass fiction and the presses.
Now we power imaginary pages
By, so they say, burning remains
Of the prehistoric.
One day, I think
The worth of all of these words
Will be weighed.