untitled poem

Sing, oh muse, your siren song--
A new song it is,
More selfish now than devious.
Call forth your fools,
At who's bidding you'll offer
Hope, Heart, a hand--
Though halfway do you heed the call.
You sing the song
But do not grasp the words--
Until you let them go.
Until you let go.

I listen for a whisper that is fading further away.
I embrace a vapor that is cool between my arms.
Seeking warmth from a candle when embers prove weak.
Fall far and stay away.
I've lost my way,
And all I can see are the paths behind.

Seek reverie in a metaphor--
For joy is a construction crafted in silence,
Or on the keys of a typewriter.
When all looks bleak the hero rises
Yet we fall.
Take your eyes off the stars--
The reality is just across the street,
Catty-corner from your heart.
The market is bad and you cannot move,
Who will buy this old fixer-upper?

None of us know the songs we are singing.
Nor do you know what this poem is really about.
But take your bits and pieces of what you glean--
It's all we can do.
Make your judgments and move forward,
Casting a sidelong glance back as you go.
Some make it a lot further than others,
If only they knew where.

Quiet and curl your feet.
Gather your bearings.
What's this mess you've found yourself in?
Sometimes riding out the storm means hunkering down.
And wondering,
What will be left?

1 comment:

  1. My favorite line: "Who will buy this old fixer-upper?" So honest and true.