How strange the magnitude of his thought, made
Clear in the sunlit day as snowflakes do
Fall through the air on a breeze of unstaid
Wind, and a grace that's made from patient's brew
Stirred in with ingenuity of cold,
And the keen moisture that never grows old.
Yet does he desire the warmth of the mind?
Could he respond to my spirit in kind?
But this is folly, he lacks the spirit
Of the wild buck that prances throughout
The land, or the beaver who seeks merit
For what is everlasting; with worn out
Phrases he tempers his brow of ice, blue
Sheen wherein is stored knowledge made untrue.
Worn Out Purpose, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment