That Which Cannot Ever Be Explained
With every now we cite the faithful muse,
the one we know is never there, but
just as certainly our patroness,
our lover for all time, our aged sprite
drifting silently along the screaming front
and those of us who write,
will never let her go.
I'll climb the tower of my ignorance.
I'll praise the circumstance that brings me there,
to curb and rest those wild oars of the mind
however aimed out in the passion of a distant call.
I'll sing those waves of self reward,
of my impetuosity when reason plays the chorus.
There again the mind falls short; the intellect
must feast upon the small perception
of the breath alone.
We must throw up our hands. That which saves us
is our creativity...as if it were enough.
And this poor poet doesn't think it is.
Ironic, isn't it? He takes some joy from that.
Copyright © Robert Ludden | Year Posted 2016