Ode To Arthur Rimbaud
He views the world in the most subtle of ways
Eyes like a fly, searching everything around, seeing
All in millisecond detail
He sees not the flower or the thorn, but the
Emerald light of photosynthesis from which it grows;
In the woman, he envisions not her curves of ecstasy
But the radiant glow of each scale
Skin soaking up light
His visions are betrayers of our eyes
As few can see thorough his.
Brilliance is not found in majesty
But his own contented selfish universe
Where our only chance to glimpse his genius
Is in a few written words.
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