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Poem

If I become the paper could you know? 
If I, the ink, would meaning flow?
These living characters, each 
a multitude beseeching through each interlude, 
as God’s own winter snow for silent ears 
unheard in minds that never grow. 
I cannot bend the grass without 
that mirrored glass of time be broken.  
Each curve a thoughtless token tossed, 
rewritten, tossed again upon an endless sea; 
given up to my stupidity. 
No beg nor plea no un-uttered silence be, 
this endless ache humanities only child. 
This mad messenger so like you, unfree.  
A line is cast, a point beheld 
and hope eternal springs anew;
could this one word reach anyone but you.  
I cannot manufacture the word, 
produce not sound nor fury felt, 
spark to thus induce true passion 
now ignite beneath the breast of knowledge, 
all truth melt. Moot question where, when, why or start; 
each utterance from truth depart 
left with silent witness in the gaping yawn of awe 
for having been a partner in his part. 
Endless circle wider wisdom’s chasm deeper still, 
with naught to bear but will. 
Not with mingled forces pressed upon me 
could I hunger more for syllable 
from out frothed mouth become. 
Only madmen share my sleep, 
upon the holy give my soul to keep 
and life will be my only rest 
until again I climb.

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