Poetic Epilepsy

So kneeling there unseen amid the dark
In prayer not, nor supplication made
He back-sore, rather, hears the morning still
And knows for too long too much he has weighed

As words pour in like water from a jar
To mix with chemicals of imagery
The short attention span of modern life
And long-attenuated apathy

For no one thinks in sonnets any less
And no one speaks in riddles but the blank
The space filled in with all not written down
By some old-caste poetic mountebank

And everyone will gather there to cheer
To seek the vanished truth, the last frontier

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