Poem: Lucky Second

 

Lucky Second

 

the clear of the mind

is the still of the room

is the quiet of angels

looking down at a bigger blue than anything ever before.

too many aspects to approach with words.

the first should be the last,

and yet it struggles with a deep apprehension

of its layered failure.

 

the effort itself a trap.

all attempts moot.

and yet passion rushes in, anyway,

appalled by sheep and stones,

to jump ghosts of ink onto a purity of paper.

 

of course, they fall.

fall off a pinnacle never reached;

fall like fools tarred-and-feathered with flourishes,

no longer fresh on the magical, moving seat

of a lucky second.

 

misgivings

and fascinations, promises

and desperate sins, and the ideals

that strengthened brazen, naked tears,

they wallow on the hot harsh bone-strewn ground--

summarized--

 

as if crawling on a sideways ladder,

one confused for piano keys.

but the music of the symbols

in the sounds of the lack of concerto

is just words.  mere words.

masks.  conceit.

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