“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.