In the depth of my soul,
Lies nothingness next to my existence.
In a box lacking pure experience
Only one question is anchored in me,
“Is it mine purely, or just a monograph?”
A question with confusing philosophy.
Behind this social “instrument”,
Lies a resistant mind
Full of dreams and visions,
Not expressed due to fixed missions.
I say experience lies in uncertainty,
But told to trust the tangible
The “truth”punished for if questioned.
Truthfully, another question haunts me,
“Do I surrender, or do i explore the mystery?”
It sits on a shelf, not quite by itself
Leaning on another, bored by the other
Waiting to be picked, waiting
To be held
It sits in the gloom, of a dusty room
Filled with motes and lost notes
Tomes that have gone home
Others that wished they had
It sits where it has sat
High on a shelf
Through two World Wars
A library in pause
You can see it through a window
A monograph in the murk
The work of an author long dead
Stories once read
From this bound book of poems
Stories once told, yet
No one will hold
This yellowed old tome
These sad pages of poetry
Sheets of simile
And lines of depressed rhyme
Where Silverfish have dined
As it now gathers dust
A must; if it’s to rest in peace
Amongst
This graveyard of books
A role is fashioned for each of us homosapiens to portray
Though what if such a role ‘twas fashioned
by a fallacious organization of fabulists
Who decode billions of renditions of one monograph
for narcissistic purpose of monetary gain?
Naked fidelity shan’t be placed upon a hollow existence
Nor should verses be fibbed
Why can’t religion be real again?
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