“Familiarity breeds contempt,”
And such it is with the words that bind
My tongue to base representations
Of the thoughts I have
Of things much greater that I.
My scrawling script ever fails
To measure up
To the abundance of beauty
That is such that words are dust
And even such that I cannot touch
How decrepit and frail they are
To bend and break
In her presence.
How does one capture color?
Can you share a shade with two?
One might as well wrestle shadow
With not but needle and thread.
Can you scale a mountain
With naught but ink and pen?
Surely,
But only if one has gone before
And set merit in recording.
And such is our limitation
That even imagination
Seems grounded in reality
Both obscenely simple and abstract.
Yet simple works and convolution
Are all we’re offered
And as beggers at the feet of muse,
What have we to scoff at?
So, we listen.
Dropping the facade of ravenous egos
Pining for recognition
In a landscape taxed
With the interests of other minds
So trapped in their own emotions,
We stagger to begin to comprehend
The facets and spectrums
Of the governance of life.
We feign to hope united purpose
Is found in prose and recitation,
Yet feebly offer our own misguided
Muddled interpretation.
“Why?”
Even greater architects proclaim in
Desperation born
Of something darker than grief.
Yet, though melancholy, we trudge on
Sometimes prancing
In unrealistic perceptions
Prescribed by entities
We dare not oppose
Nor deliver recognition.
So…
Tantalize the vacant heavens
Entertain the overcrowded stage
Till even fire and damnation
Are worn out myths from broken pens.
Moonlit Poetry 