My eyes rest in the midday light,
The world's many places — not at rest,
Like anthills hell-bent on expansion,
Yet each part paces far from sight,
Exhale.
Each conflict, each pain, each death,
Like a weight upon my fragile breast,
But blandly blending through my cortex,
Are carried silently upon my breath,
Travail.
Perchance the years slack the senses,
Or mere neglecting one's genuflecting,
Perchance the fire would have expired,
In truth I must quiet these pretenses,
Telltale.
A common sound pierces this meditation,
And mind and soul slack their chains,
This man recalls that he is a creature,
Pitiful and beautiful unto salvation,
Avail.
2 comments:
"A common sound pierces this meditation,/And mind and soul slack their chains..."
I know that feeling. I know it too well. Though, in my case, I am afraid the chains become, well, taut; I stubbornly push back. But it is no use, and I am stuck between two places.
Though, I must say, I admire and, to a certain degree, am able to envision the content in the last three lines of this stanza. It is plausible. I can picture the descriptor, "avail." Really, I can.. But for some reason, this "avail" is not answered by me, and I am stuck in a mad imaginarium which pushes and pulls at the same time. My pretenses get the best of me.
Thank you for your thoughtful comment Michael. How did you run across this poem?
I'm glad the poem found a connection.
Peace.
Post a Comment