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
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
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
in silence and meditation
as distance allows a closer look at the chaos beyond
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.
about the writer.
“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw)