Total Internal Reflection

lost...lost...lost..
in the emptiness of the temporal,
inquisitive 'bout the quintessence of being,
who more supreme a teacher than the Cause,
the crust of his mentor;
thrust upon,
in perhaps bountiful a measure,
undoubtedly more profoundly on this student,
the crumb of mankind, the contempt of the erudite,
and the scorn of the banal.

Have pity on the thinker,
for him,
shaky, and precarious,
are the arms of Hypnos,
uneasy is his sleep,
he cannot live without his soul,
a cloak of worldliness, is his body,
nurturing the seed of truth,
but there also is the greed to reach the end- the attainment,
has he forgotten it is but its absence...
but thou fret not,
there is succour in the cradle of Morpheus.

Unbeknownst to this infant in the macrocosm of his inventive thought,
is reality - which one? he asks...
the real one - the domain of the mortal - comes the reply,
is that the one ?
No, not this ocean of nothingness,
not this abominable void of despondence,
not this suffocating stranglehold of time and space...
He cannot stand,
nor understand,
nor can words make vivid,
the silence of conscience,
or the con of science.
But.... he tries,
tries he.... but...

The outpourings of verse,
liability of those who emote,
of those with feelings,
for whom life - as the infidels of the soul know it,
is an endless fountain of diabolical dealings,
beings vulnerable bubbles in the scum,
clarity lies the water below;
the origin, the end.
He dives into the murky waters,
splashes about with his words,
splatters droplets on the passers-by,
screaming to the world,
his own surreal loneliness.
Lost in the melancholy of his lines,
a bard's life perhaps,
is in the shade of a dark sepulchre,
but never is it dull,
for there is grandeur in his words,
as he weaves a fragile web,
showing him to you,
showing yourself to you.
Eloquence thrives on sadness,
gushing out like tears from a woman's eyes,
drying up when the bitterness is gone,
leaving only remnents on paper,
for all of the world to moisten up on.
Such is the sadness of verse,..,

The outpourings of verse,
so beautiful they are,
a return to innocence,
souls relishing the harmony of ideas,
the poet harvesting his nursery of the senses,
his quill is the sickle,
his body the farmer,
his being the life in these germinating seeds of joy,
are these the seeds of truth hidden from him, in him ?
Is happiness the truth ?
Then is the suffering of humankind an untruth?
Can man only look through the shattered foggy intangible windows?
what is the panaroma of the heavens?
The pilgrimage to truth is blissful.
Such is the joy of verse.....

They read in between the lines,
they read through the lines,
but do they read the lines themselves ?
An interpretation of his dreams,
a castle of their thoughts....
irony, they say, is the axe of the poet,
Alas, his life is an amalgam of joy and despair !
Such is the irony of verse...

A poet close to one heart,
is a faithful confidante,
churning out verse for you,
to live in,
to feel sad in,
to revel in its joy,
to savour its grandiloquence,
to let your spirit connect to yourself...
A poet is yours, truly..
a poet is yours truly.......