He is worn down
and quite threadbare.
So let us sit together now
to form a new reality. It isn't hard.
We do it every day
without a conscious push,
and there it is, staring back,
a joyous, often fearsome monster toy
that never goes away.
What kind of wisdom may apply—
furrowed, relic of the wars?
Perfection, then, is not an option;
for there are too many tears.
Aha! To make a point,
that surely is the sense
and sensibility, the magic power
between our palms, and vanity
the joy to fill the cornucopia of time.
But then, someone chose instead
the only gift that could emerge
from spirit hands, that longing look
that history is always dredging up—
the one that tears horizons down
to feast on bread and wine
it never saw before, nor entertained
upon the slate of its fond paradise.
I see, before we even start
that we are quite undone.