"unaided" poems - Hello Poetry

i am convinced now that no passion exists like that between a man and his craft. no love like the love for solitude, by which one can enter a world all his own, and plunge to its unfathomable depths, carelessly disregarding his return. no quest otherwise compares- oh how could it? when countless years of history can never be retold, never be reenacted with different players and different settings? a man plays a role for a day, a month, a year, a decade, then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert. no amount of memories can be remade, and no amount of care is remembered. he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness for others to mistakenly join and unjoin. but in his craft a man loses himself. he has only his love to invest and only his love to be returned. when stricken with failure he selfishly laps it all up, gathers it close to his heart, and holds it as treasure, locked and filed. he searches for the bottom with lighted torch, the end with relentless fervor, finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance, has no expectation dashed and destroyed. his eagerness for success drives him deeper. his delusions of grandeur, perpetually emboldened. come find me, i am waiting for you the solitude beckons him into its fissure, the cleft in the crust of civilization, indescribable and hardly intelligible to others. yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote. with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection, does he pray to be with that god, Lord of his life and Giver of his breath. he is a post for flags to be hung, seen only by those who wander the same mountains, searching for a chasm of their own. he is unaided in his walk with the stars, windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence. a man needs silence, darkness beneath his eyelids, and space in his bed to breathe.

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Apr 12, 2014

Apr 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC

stephane-noir

the perfectionless perfectionist

i am convinced now that no passion exists like that between a man and his craft. no love like the love for solitude, by which one can enter a world all his own, and plunge to its unfathomable depths, carelessly disregarding his return. no quest otherwise compares- oh how could it? when countless years of history can never be retold, never be reenacted with different players and different settings? a man plays a role for a day, a month, a year, a decade, then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert. no amount of memories can be remade, and no amount of care is remembered. he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness for others to mistakenly join and unjoin. but in his craft a man loses himself. he has only his love to invest and only his love to be returned. when stricken with failure he selfishly laps it all up, gathers it close to his heart, and holds it as treasure, locked and filed. he searches for the bottom with lighted torch, the end with relentless fervor, finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance, has no expectation dashed and destroyed. his eagerness for success drives him deeper. his delusions of grandeur, perpetually emboldened. come find me, i am waiting for you the solitude beckons him into its fissure, the cleft in the crust of civilization, indescribable and hardly intelligible to others. yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote. with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection, does he pray to be with that god, Lord of his life and Giver of his breath. he is a post for flags to be hung, seen only by those who wander the same mountains, searching for a chasm of their own. he is unaided in his walk with the stars, windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence. a man needs silence, darkness beneath his eyelids, and space in his bed to breathe.