Saturday, April 21, 2007

The Wanted and Wanting

You'll find no irony here.
If that be your bag then look elsewhere,
for I am only interested in the truth and it's nuances.

Happy they claim, those who have what they want
A vestal for man to brag or to flaunt
The wish in the poet is never to write
The curse of the lover is to pen all that is trite
The emptiness stretches into an abyss
Until the empty is what the wanters miss
A gift from the freedom of every fringe
A grand gesture of the fire forever singed

Happy they find, in the beaches’ waves
An echo shouted into echoing caves
“My dear” he began but could never finish
As fondness and passion sated and diminished
Ever rushing falls of the heart inflame
Every sign, every post, in direction the same
It saves the weary a longer trek
But regardless the passion becomes but a speck

Happy they lose, on the shortening trail
Grass bending at feet becoming so frail
And steps in length become less bold
As the resolute falter or sink into the fold
Any takers? Any gamblers? Can you finish those searches?
Of ten thousand years, of ten thousand churches?
They don’t disappear they return where they’re from
A world so criminal has killed all that’ve come

Happy we speak, with words so thin
That every last letter has become a sin
When only gestures convey what it is we mean
But still in speak and pronunciation so keen
The pages have burned and ink as if wept
Will liberate those tired of false intellect
When any one with a pen can change the weather
We seek shelter and hope for it to begat something better

Happy will come, we tell ourselves
As if the property of it will fly off of shelves
The only answer offered is that something is needed
But the esoteric egotists only speak to be heeded
No matter how many times words are rearranged
They only need be spelled again for the writer to be hanged
For if there lies one letter out of line
Then out with the old and break the book’s spine


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