This poem is inspired by the frustration of history-- how the past tends to repeat itself, and how we seem to make the same mistakes time and time again. It can seem easy to take relics of the past- quotes or scenarios- and use them to rationalize the present, but there's a fine line between learning from history and being destined to repeat it.

Indefinite

Against the brow of battered time

I staple words that aren't mine

With pens whose ink has dulled and quit

Shall quills or stone prove yet more fit?

Whose lips are firm and eyes are sunk

I beg thee- take the words of monks

Or priests or gods or mice or men

Good heavens! take them all and then

Familiar and yet, so queer

To whisper words into your ear

That has, in drums, been beaten in

Not once, but twice, and so again

Take mercy on my quiet soul

That utters not a word it knows

But known by men who've come and went-

Perhaps their words are better spent