Futile

Red-wine melodies And moon-light visions, Painted moments Of my best memory, Live among the swamps Where midnight climbs cypress trees, The bounty-hunter Of my childhood. There, Water-moccasins and alligators Are much prettier Than the human atrocities I’ve encountered Since first wandering From those familiar lands, So savage and sweet. Now I find The disappearing marsh My preferred salvation, Scented with an integrity Humanity would not understand. For the raw temperament With which I exist Is unmatched by foreign element. I’d rather smell the discontent Of an unspoiled bayou Than the wetlands Of man’s superficial Acknowledgement, Yet I am an unwilling criminal To the crimes Wrought upon my nature. Would, if I could, Find balance between The cicada’s recital And the beauty of humanity, If only in a glimmer. I’d walk in both worlds, Satisfied and complete, Without hesitation. But for the force Gleaming within the impossible, I am left to flounder Within red-wine melodies And moon-light visions, Emotive motivations Prompting my pen Into futile action. What heartbreaking agony To witness the last Of mangroves Where I’d sooner die Than see my great-grandchildren Live without knowing Such eloquence Of genuine statement. From where I stand There can be no substitution For the memory lost To progress And I, too, Will fade away, A tribute Blurred by time.