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Sep 12
Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Ever?
Composed overwhelmed and in awe , of  everything, and nothing.
Phil B
Written by
Phil B  M/Perth
(M/Perth)   
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