within the mind, both free and enslaved
to passions, convictions, traditions ideas without wings insight without means lost sleep, lonely dreams the roads paved all lead nowhere. the fire inspired, flickers faint the gusting winds of fortune and fame, satire and stupidity, always laughing too loudly, speaking to quickly shimmering diamonds drip from their tongues though sulfur be upon their breath the crowds clamor for their eye their hand the hem of their red-carpet gowns hoping to catch some reflection of their glory. but let the mind, both free and enslaved, dance through the open field syncopate her soul to the rhythms of the ocean celebrate the flower and the weed alike, the butterfly and moth in flight, the opera that breaks the crimson dawn the pastel dusky, lullaby song. these are bookends of diversity, not value; a different glory altogether. the depressionistic painter, so brilliantly bruised colors of mystery and misery confused unrequited strength of eye and of brush ungrateful winds quench his fiery touch a glory mistaken misunderstood missed altogether. in silence and meditation as distance allows a closer look at the chaos beyond take courage take heart take hold of both the loneliness and the dreams; paint them into the starry night of the landscape that calls you home. let not the broken scales of men reconfigure the weights of self nor the shattered lenses of porcelain souls deconstruct the glories beheld.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
categories. |