Poetry I

On Aesthetics

Poetry, like water, doth distil
through dirty rocks and rusty taps.
We search for it with mine, and drill.
But after all our efforts, still
it's offered up unto the gods;
a process of evaporation
guarantees its circulation.

Literature, in waves, assaults the shore.
Such plenteousness can nothing mean
till drought doth come. It rains no more
and, "Oh!", how we the gods implore,
"Deliver us from our misery!"
This dread of our predestination
the only fruit of desperation.

Little could we know, amidst the pain,
that drilling down and offering up
around us did go on, the same.
Each act that seeks to catch the rain
doth nought but hasten on the hour
when heaven will take her reparation,
and poetry its recreation.

Written 01.02.05. Read the small print.

Labels: poetry