Though weary eyes may fear to see
That which is masked and hidden from pose
There is much more to be held in dread
The stares back at thee - in reflection.
Flight maybe an impulsive reflection
But pause to look back and wonder:
What are those spectre that task so -
In the cold dead of night when the Pleiades flee;
Whose grave shall be served in flee;
Will there be critic’s words to be engraved
Upon the headstone with false earnestness;
Or shall there be songs in manner of glee.
As fallen leaves rest upon the ground of imperfection
When death waits to take your final breath
Then with a last grasp - reach out to embrace
His barren posture; surrender to the infinite of thee.
No comments:
Post a Comment