The temple’s pillars wobble and fall
The boulder races towards Indie Jones
No sense to scream or cover your eyes
You know they’re only Styrofoam

Forms without substance, sculptures of emptiness
Stuff without essence, the props of a play
Light as a feather, toys of the weather
The slightest of breezes could blow them away

A styrene snow falls—it coats us all
Degrades us to dots on a monitor screen
Profiles fed to the databases
Proteins snared on a tangle of genes

Forms without substance, sculptures of emptiness
Creatures of numbers and vivified clay
Psyches unanchored, souls disengaged
Life’s requisite tempests will blow them away

Layer on layer, the stuff is applied
While what’s inside shrivels and atrophies
‘Til the songs of our surrogate selves only seem
An ensemble of rattles, gourds filled with dried beans

Form without substance, a sculpture of emptiness
Grass bound to wither, flower done in a day
Desiccate spirit, beguiled not to hear it
The wind that is rising
to     blow     us     all

Discussion and Comments

  1. I enjoyed one of Richard Krepski’s other poems and want to ask him about it. Please ask him to contact me when convenient.