Saturday, March 30, 2013

The Seamless Seam

Is there a soul that a man can now read
That hasn't experienced some struggle
By which it came into the world? We bleed
As we grow so as to make ourselves full
Grown and able to do what is right for
Us. How else to survive but to suffer
Through, to soldier on, to break the fast door
That bars our way by resolute will's? Were
There any other way life would be a
Paradise to man! For no man loves pain.
Yet what lies upon the other side may
Prove to be what we have searched for, a gain
So sweet that all glamorous ardor pales
In comparison to the luminous
Beauty that stands before our weary ails,
Our hardened body, and our broken trust
Opens once more in the presence of, what?
But I cannot say what it is of which
I speak since hardly a day has gone by
That hasn't caused me some pain. In a ditch
Is my mind more often than not, I sigh
By night as though life had no meaning, no
Appeal, no beat, as though my heart makes much
Show at beating and cannot truly go
On since what is seeks is but a dream; such
Pretty lights yet unseen in the mind of
A man so longing for the sight of true
Sensational being that he cannot love.
And all that I seek and long for is, what?
For suffered I have not only in my
Bodily parts, whereby I have received
Mark upon marks that were marked on the fly
By sharp pointy sticks. By metal I bleed
So as to prove myself a man in a
Cold world grown dark and dank with so much work
That only a fool could thrive by the day
And make for himself some undeserved perk!
Still I go on, and on goes time; with me
On it! As if a jaunty ride by sight
Did suddenly loose its appeal when we
Boarded it; for such glamor is a plight
To man since he seeks in life permanence
Of comfort and security. How else
Should I describe the wound that festers in
My soul, this soul that bled and rang the bells
Of St. Peter's Pearly Gates with a fresh made sin
Made possible by time's way opportune?
Or am I but a fool, and merely a loon
That's searching and searching for who knows, what?
However much I complain and do moan
For whats hidden in the dark, has not shown,
No matter what it is after which I
Seek I know that it shall not reveal
Itself until I am down and out, die;
Until I am very humble, meek, steel
Myself to do my job: whatever that
Is. So search I still on this sad Friday
For what I long for, and what may at
Some point in the near future be at play
In my life and in my work as a ray
Of hope by which I may see that which is;
Whatever it may be, though all it is
Is what it is, by which what it has been
Is renewed and restored as though a seam
On a cloth that did rip down the middle
Became one and then seamless! A fiddle
Will play on that day I do find it there.
Whatever it is may it lay me bare
So as to reveal what's in my sad soul
So as to say that whats inside is whole.
And then I'll realize that all my work
Has earned me at last some well deserved perk;
Yes, when I find the who of the what.

                          The Seamless Seam, (c) Luke Bennette, March 2013

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