Epigone

(  *  \EP-uh-gohn\, noun:
An inferior imitator, especially of some distinguished writer, artist, musician, or philosopher  )




Put these tears to bed,
each grand, eloquent, emptiness;

god has fallen from the tumbling sky,
and the moon is but a wind tonight.

The dead, seeing no difference,
have nothing to say; no compass to guide,

and night, without children,
pools in the disinterest of shadow.



Put these clocks to censure;
hope is but the friendly shout of youth;

how she passed my notice without notice
and fades; a gentle lighthouse sweep;

my heart, the fractious shore.




---------------------04/12/01
Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

Poem

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Guzzi Avatar
October 20, 2019 at 3:46 PM
A most excellent verse. Light & Love
Warlov Avatar
October 20, 2019 at 5:02 PM
Thanks Debbie. I posted it in spite of its bombast, because it achieves some internal consistency.
Warlov Avatar
September 28, 2019 at 7:05 AM
Even an epigone is right twice a day -
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