I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:
The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh-- and they who hear absorb the vibrant end of the birdy's sonic thread. Apart from the howl and hoot, in a parcel of ample space, the sweet bird embraces a rhythmic tufted bop and binds the living race.
So I stopped and sat still
as I saw the prime commence,
And wondered on the possession
of so serious a fact.
the act presupposes an end.
See,
the mighty legs of
the many runners
fatigue upon the chase.
The object lesson for all concerned?
they run awfully hard in place.
The beast, it takes its fill. Mother frowns and shakes her till. And... there the mites are a'mourning. Trembling few, ensconced in warning. The funny dread of complicit rage be the muted distress of every age. And we, you and me all the while bear benefit and burden with lacquered smile. As for those who fight we may wonder on their lives: if their struggle be a light? Or but a flippant lie?
The covenant of men: see as, say nothing. Then here we are, the fruitless multipliers of the irrational stasis. Wedded once and forever to each other and the notions of our weaker selves. Who called for prostration amongst these glorious beasts? Who but ourselves could form the will to surrender?
Forget child? The human remains. In all those ways that feel disturbed and incongruous. In all those moments of triumph and resounding delight. The human remains and silences the murmurs of elevation living in the great sea of collective intensity.
Humanity; oh, macrocosm of the human. Say, please, that it is not so. Be not an association, but the hope of something finer.
For those who show distress, utter the refrain: Veni Vidi Et flevit Wheresoever is the value in those tears?
I do not believe in the cheap trick and I would not say but that it needs to be said: far more unsettling than the predictable end is the reflection of us as we live.
The mirror woes and
the mirror waves,
present
unsettled constitution
in sedentary haze.
Poor boy!
Poor us for living.
That he might know
pain and pain alike,
and that hate is forgiven.
In every moment a
reflection.
In each a rattled nerve
less sense, scant affection.
Poor life!
Without meaning nor worthy lament.
Grant that we might blanche,
not persist and persist;
yet from birth defiling only innocence.
Few are the mild mannered men living lost among these seas. (the fruit of friction - being and observance) Wispy fellows, fearful of nights, and in ignorance expressing concern for their kind.
Whosoever would have me would mock the fare of the day, and assume no need of the imprimatur of their sacred phantoms. And mine would be the gratitude of humanity; an open and benevolent sense you may trust to reward your courage. Perhaps together we might embody those notions that I, lying still and searching, have oft dreamt were but a moment from existence. And as one we might know, without bounds, a world free from spite.
If you seek relief in the transient balm of your age, you will note the whimsical fury of the present and the thorough disregard of your effort. Contrast, then, the stark and fleeting with the perpetual ease of the will to forge a new meaning in your time, in your space; meaning that will envelope the I in an inimitable way. The goal of any person: the call to reason.
The irony of human suffering along the sliding scale: you are forced ever outward by centrifugal forces. The clarity and peace of the origin an irreducibly tiny part of your once effervescent nature. Breath now, the musty air of time everlasting. Taste the staleness of the fragile identity. And in awareness of yourselves, may you find the peace denied as you press ever outward.
Philessatry 