We’re F. Scott ingénues.
Curious cases.
Brilliant but fading
fast--enamored
by the evergreen glow
of fate.
We flout convention
to tout our lofty “truths”
star-written and palm-read.
For passing thrills,
we study the sun.
Sleepy scientists searching
not for an answer,
but the blinding light
that precipitates Eureka.
Illusions of healing:
ice packs, heating pads,
band-aids that proclaim
our status as bad mother *******
carry more weight than any
ultimate solution.
We’re dilettantes.
Tinkerers.
Hobby-Lobbyists.
Will we ever burst
the bubble-wrapped life
to seek the exact?
Where is our Great Perhaps?
Have we found it yet?
Or are we just
a passing fad?
A cunning plan?
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
We’re F. Scott ingénues.
Curious cases.
Brilliant but fading
fast--enamored
by the evergreen glow
of fate.
We flout convention
to tout our lofty “truths”
star-written and palm-read.
For passing thrills,
we study the sun.
Sleepy scientists searching
not for an answer,
but the blinding light
that precipitates Eureka.
Illusions of healing:
ice packs, heating pads,
band-aids that proclaim
our status as bad mother *******
carry more weight than any
ultimate solution.
We’re dilettantes.
Tinkerers.
Hobby-Lobbyists.
Will we ever burst
the bubble-wrapped life
to seek the exact?
Where is our Great Perhaps?
Have we found it yet?
Or are we just
a passing fad?
A cunning plan?
I've been reading a lot of Fitzgerald's short stories lately. I've nearly fallen into a F. Scott fugue state.
