again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
the days has come when I can only write of others, this is the only shade of my voices that survives.
