And the Words of the Prophets Are Written On the Subway Walls

I could mock ignorance and stupidity,

Make fun of their mediocrity

Of thought by forging that clichéd

Elitist argument meant to degrade.

But sometimes I have to wonder,

As I traipse around far under

The city streets, where oracular

Words reside among vernacular

And underestimated gems of insight

Are almost obscured, marred by spite.

Beneath the violence and the hate,

Below the self-glorifying spate

Of pretentious and proud ineptitude,

These treasures I view with gratitude.

The slogans with some meaning there

Are not in vain: they’re read with care.

The End

64 comments about this poem Feed