As laughing wavelets pull the cleansing dawn
Across our souls to life long woebegone,
Our poet grins and flirts on with his muse,
Their lovedrunk dreams seducing truth’s long snooze,
Away from bed and other forms of art,
The ink sleeps true, the poet’s pretty part,
A happy hand, true from hope’s booze and song,
Draws well the world with words so used to wrong.
Our burning calm and sleeping furry race
As brothers born across the mirror’s face,
And fight til growing tired, we shift our gaze
There on the sea of days unsailed we graze,
The lovers look to extasy and age,
Great castles floating in the soul off stage
The flowers flee the fall and coming storm,
The hero all he knows just to conform,
To fit the story, he hears the call and song,
And follows true the hero’s path to wrongs,
Since man first raised his head and saw the stars,
His story’s been of heros from afar,
Both martial in their victories and wrongs,
As wells profoundly filled by muses' songs.
In emulating them we take our place
And find the path to fame & hollowed grace.
His trembling soul athrist for meaning lost,
He wandered through man’s follies & their cost
And learned success & failure die together,
But one short flash in the windy nether.
The only thing worth doing’s acting well
As brooks make rivers, deeds make tales to tell.
But what is he, without a dream to foster,
A character in search of an author?
He is a man without a context, lost,
Who seeks true harmony at any cost.
To be a God, a craftsman forming truth,
For others lost, is how he’d spend his youth,
Were but his feeble body not so wry,
So insignificant, with but two eyes,
In no way enough to spot the splendored might,
The majesty and fire out of sight.
To spy all time and space, existence too,
As if t’were but a mountain range in view.
The universe’s grandeur’s too divine
For man so meek to properly design,
Or even dare to know or do but pine,
At knowing how man measures with his senses,
And fosters boundlessly those due pretenses
Which lock his mind in comfort’s arms and sealed
Him from the truth, how blind he is, revealed.
Blind to so much, which must all be translated
To sight, sound or some other sense unsated,
He found himself in search of meaning sought,
But never understood it’s fleeting naught,
Naught but a fancy, fleeting thought and folly,
But he escaped the cave and allegory
And found the sweet, sweet taste of absent glory,
Which feeds the empty world a yawning void
And vainly makes the rakes most overjoyed
To know they swive away their lives in truth,
While no great men escape time’s mighty tooth.