How do the fleeting moments slide beyond this desperate errant grasp?
How does this waning life of rhyme find a single point to clasp
within the hopes of purpose lain, within the humble want
that dreams of words in echo there
among the flaxen hopes, that haunt
the fabric of every day?
They dance in ether’s lacquered musk,
seduced by what the poet knows,
drunken in their wanton lust
that to the world, designed to show
that every day is bread and wine,
every day mundane,
repeated work in value’s void
is stiff and slanted highway rain.
But there the motivation comes
in anger of such wasted schemes,
that force eventuality paused,
suspended near the hopes and dreams
that greater purpose pricks the poet,
greater purpose pulls his soul,
greater meaning meant for others,
posthumous drifts ‘tween the poles
of temporal lines in lingering,
gestalt wrapped cross the evening sun
that folds a sinner’s dusk in death,
that drives the length toward when it’s done.
Are there points reflected in the mirror of what is God?
Are hints divine across the fabric strong in even, weak in odd?
Is it just too much to dream that sacrifice and duty’s truth will open doors while living?
Or is it just that what is blessed, is best when long since gone, it’s giving?
Oh! How my aching heart decries the hateful mourn of working day!
Oh! How the empty echoes pain the tasks that for tomorrow stay!
How can the soul in living form adjust to less than spirit,
when robbed of moments fleeting points, that ears left passed are few to hear it?
Sad the poet’s recompense that draws the bitter coins to purse,
leaving only two for crossing’s price and dues to pay the hearse.
Yet there upon the rippled Styx the faintest whispers heard,
repeating every lay and rhyme, repeating poet’s every word…