2017 : March

The world was seized; I felt it’s sharp convulsion.
A force too great for me to comprehend
Had placed the light and dark into emulsion.
Yet there I was, as ready to pretend
That I could catch the storm, and apprehend
The waves and wind, as ever one man lied
From hapless vanity disguised as pride.

But cognizance of posturing does not
In/of itself acquit the foolish heart:
I’d tried to make the world go small by thought,
To make it somewhat tamable. In part,
I’d left the horse behind, and kept the cart.
The winds of March brought on a storm so great
That I sought to traduce – or sublimate.

The storms of earth and life are much the same;
We’ll turn away, until that proves in vain.
We try transforming them into a game
Of splashing puddles in the stinging rain,
Half ingenuity, and half insane.
For some things are too much for us, too real:
So maybe we should stop our thought, and feel.

The world was seized, and so, at last, was I.
The storm drowned out complacency in blasts
Of wind and rain that tore across the sky.
No hundred futures, nor a thousand pasts,
Could keep that wind from tearing at our masts,
And leaving broken ships washed up on shore:
Like this smashed hulk that I must
Answer for

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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