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I See What You Did There

Though all are blessed with eyes to see,
Eyes never lay sight upon the seer;
No retina perceives the seedling
beneath its iris.

Ocular nerves sense Occam-ented pictures
Of identity: portraits framed by
Ourselves, Us, and Others
- Whose eyes perceived whole
But whose sense perceived naught.

	How is one to know
	Who it is for whom
	Their heart beats?

Romantics look for themselves
In others and the observation
Of their heart’s beloved ideals:
Experiences of beauty, tangibly
Vicarious.

Intellectuals observe through dissection
And kill the living
As quickly as it was born,
So depth of connection
Is sufficed by cold scalpels.

The romantic and the heart
proceed  differently
and disconnect from the disconnected
intellect; yet each of Us
Is perpetually lost without Our Other.

Scalpels vanquish all resistance
But all attempts to vulnerable depth
mistake the sentimental
  Leaving only the literal.

Yet poetry is not figurative solely,
as the romantic wandering between objects
discovers when shadows of the soul
reveal the mistaking mates
checkered by bad lighting.

	Vulnerable adjacency’s quakes
	Beget depths of valleys, forsaking
	Foresight to be bound to pits.

Seers see nothing in fables
Yet tell tales of vivid startles
Recounting cinematic sights
That the pupil finds to be hind,
Thus doubts one without rods
since Jesse was no profit;
therefore,
why make testaments to the old before the new?

P a t i e n c e.
For the seer has not yet spoken
To teach what I's obstruct.

Truth -- with mighty capital -- is thought
Deferred beyond any measure,
Depreciated for bearing a used cross.
With inheritance in question,
What flows from this river
Already stepped in?
Understanding, which can only be understood
If known, and only known
Through appreciation: the selfless
know thyself.

Understanding is
		So difficult
			        To understand.
			        Best reflected
		When succumb
To illumined flow.

Elucidation is for the patient.
The heart and the mind
Have more to say
Than either can bear to hear.
They can only write each other
And print in their discursive style
Garnering attention to distract
From stillness.

So to stillness go:
Also sprach nicht zeitgeist,
For Truth is timeless
Due to incorporeal
Incorporation in the real,
Another name for the subtle,
Since it is for all and for none,
Thus, the isolated primes
Find reunion despite the parallax
isolating them, for two hemispheres
unite at a horizon and though
So much may never touch
what be so near
The union is true.

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