The world is not enough for us of late;
the rough cold fate of living life to die
exchanged for the spending and getting of time,
the warmth of a fire and a hot plate
rather than the uncertainty of night,
and so we’ve laid waste our sacred birth right.
We are no longer nature or subject
to her, but in that most final moment
that one must face when money fails to buy;
two coins over the eyes and yet we cry
because it is life that we cannot bribe.
We have given away our hearts as coins,
and all the up gathering of missing
and stolen memories whisked to tempest
doesn’t move men’s hearts or make safe the passage.
The Poetry Of J.P. 