Welcome to Gaia! ::

[untitled elegy]

Who would stand outside the flow of
status quo, and denounce the degrading
acts of their practices past:
no longer worshipping the mortal,
man-made “deities” whose
sordid pictures plaster every last
found wall -
even the creaking, groaning,
shambles of a frail, old woman and her
quaint blue cottage down the street,
awaiting chain and ball;
and no more partaking daily life as
Roman holiday to behold:
Schadenfreude instead of familial structure,
and increasingly more Bigwigs than, try, Musketeers --
a malevolent experience of reality this world!
Dissolving,
lie Truth and Honor of regal times,
submerged in the trenches of the ocean whose name is anything but.
[The Bard (even in his time),
from the tremulous fathoms,
surfaced with a looking glass
to reflect upon the failing,
epitomizing life of a Madman,
whose ravings of Hedonism proved scant, when
one sect of the Trinity remained pure,
and a Scaramouch proved necessary, as an
undying foil to
unshed fallacies,
tainted with Treason and Temerity.]

Could you find yourself,
escaping between the cracks of society,
leaving behind the comfort of a Life to
uncover the someone something disclosed?
Could you find yourself,
friends with underworld denizens,
whispering the follies of an angel and the
biting thoughts that you,
and you alone,
must fight across Night’s Bridge?
[Life above would flow unturned.]
Behold your mementos:
The bottle-cap necklace,
the mythical blade, and
the Providence key --
nostalgic flashes, deft endowments, and pure chance shall
unlock the door, and,
humbly, you shall gain respect,
Hero,
amongst all who now
truly do matter.
Understand the truth of these small things:
the moments of still comprehension
Rilke captured,
Wilde elaborated and
Blake imagined -- lest you
paint yourself, in angst or inquietude,
Edvard Munch’s Skrik; lest you
plummet, during some frowning sunset,
into the black Void of the
Road to Nowhere; lest you
predicate Rodin’s Fata Morgana - the specious
manifestation of space behind the
Gates of Hell -
ecstasy and bliss.

Heaven-sent, stars fall,
setting in motion,
voluptuous and majestic as
Hokusai’s Tsunami:
Purpose.
Would you define Purpose,
set afoot that schooner,
and forever therefore transform yourself from
juvenile ignorance? -- or, inversely,
devolve into an insect of reproach?
No abyss of invisibility befits anyone today;
Liberalism planted a flag amongst the clouds:
Why shun and hide from your due liberties?

Revel again amongst the abstract
mind of a child; unbreakable outlines
disappear, and the bars that once
blocked all aspiration dissolve…
The stage, clear and free,
waits for the performer, who with ease and candor,
enthralls the Fates and, more importantly,
Ego,
boldly presenting an anthem of modest respect.

Allow that thread to golden,
brightly shine!
Victory to who goes -
concerning that
Gnostic beauty, the
Liberalism of Literature -
(again!)
Victory to who goes and
attains Romanticism; unlike the
Tomfoolery of undeserving Artisans,
who fail to flow with prime Imagination or Feeling,
they traveled the distance,
unearthing that one ought hold,
stead and sound,
betwixt one irrevocable thought:
Romanticism…
pure un-Enlightened Reason;
who would spurn nature?

Quick --
Gone --
True --
Resound --
Emotions are the swift songs of eternity
felt in one fleeting second; imagine Mozart’s
Requiem,
contained and compact,
yielding itself to grace your being;
with a lamenting saunter amongst hazy spirits,
the past shaped would invoke
deep,
cadenced,
breathless desire:
reveries of hoisting sail again.
Yet, in essence,
you know this foolish;
deeper even, beats content.

In joy! meant
the seasons of lives
and times…

Thank you.