Another time away, a wilderness Where you alone are writhing, fiercely touched In broaching infinite bewilderedness; And all the parties search, but nothing much Turns up. We brothers in arms march the road, I wish it lightened or removed the load. O pray, I say, when you have disappeared; It's seldom someone vanishes but once. I many times went up in smoke and neared The ultimate undoing of a dunce; None other than my shame which shamefully Appraised me of my friends disdainfully. Along the promontory where you walk, How distant do the mighty waves appear? Its sparkling vastness, does it make you balk Like me? Does its immediacy hear Your frantic self-calumniations in Compulsive condemnation of a sin? If only it sufficed for one to wear, Like wretched martyrs to obscure our dreck, A bramble and a tunic made of hair To be a martyr with no background check. Though I should like to have some saintliness, I'm more than blessed to miss ungainliness. Alight on water and the ripples pulse. In certain soils and trails one leaves a trace To varying degrees; it still results In leaving an impression on the place, But since imperfect the residual It's often wished to be invisible. Aloneness keeps perfection as its goal, Its prized possession is a furtive show Where it can be itself without the role It self-assigns; it wants someone to know Its substance, but for fear of what that means It keeps its sordid details out-of-scene. The tight-lipped tyrant in the citadel Of self-abasement locks in bonds and chains, Pronounces any thought as infidel Which holds compassion for the human brain. Those doubts and flaws it hates beyond compare; All small shortcomings are beyond repair. Proclaimed a little insect, just a bug On fragile wings of chance and charity, And is it instinct or a lucky tug Outside the many mirrors, clarity Of insignificance how they avoid The means through otherwise they'd be destroyed? Peregrinating bones beneath the domes Of holy cities who were left unnamed, The penetrating moans that no one homes From gutters emamate in curse of fame Who made them or waylaid them, or the worst, Left them ignored completely from the first. A future time with its magnetic eyes Looks back into our own, and swiftly snaps Its lids and so have caught the poor, dumb flies. It closes on a present tossed like craps. When real life deviates the mask slips down; A demon whispers of a fated crown. The absolutist instinct overcasts The gentle flaws of gems aflame on night's Horizon, and the blackened cloud outlasts Perception as the eminent un-light. The lust for an elusive fact in mist, Ideals are petrified and actions list. The eye of indecision is afraid. The ears that fear derision sensitize. The hand of visions grand is stayed, And in real life is disincentivized. Their less-than-perfect is a less-than-whole, And they beholden to a stillborn goal. What can I say to praise imperfect things? I cannot add or take from what they are. What I could add more value doesn't bring; If I detract it's not a further scar. So I shall sing that greatest virtue sees Their value is that they exist with me.
A place for my poems 