21-12-2012
Date written:
Jan 24 2010
The calendar wasn’t vital,
It wasn’t a title
He was in charge of;
This was a labor of love.
He was quite far along
When something went wrong,
His hand, it stopped,
His pen, it dropped.
His hand cramping,
His brow frowning,
He left the calendar as it lay,
Stopping at some random day.
The Mayan scribe,
Left to describe,
The event to his wife;
That had been the thrill of his life.
Unbeknownst to him,
A servingman, on a whim,
Took the piece of writing
For he found it interesting.
Today, people treasure,
Read, and take measure,
Of an old scribe’s ink.
Oh, when will they learn to think?
Comments for
21-12-2012
Comments:
1
great poem, I'm not sure it
Submitted by hello my name is on Fri, 02/26/2010 - 19:55.
great poem, I'm not sure it was a random day though, don't get me wrong I don't think anything will happen but, the day the mian calander ends is the same day the mians knew all the planets would allign as they did study stars and planets.
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