Friday, September 2, 2011
The sadness of these images is cold,
Mere form and rigid meaninglessness.
A mistake to think of them as a mold
Into which we are invited to press
Anxieties we can't otherwise express.
In dreams, there are clouds and sky
Even when all else is unfamiliar clay
Pressed by idiot fingers. Don't ask why.
Rapidity in sleep is all about delay
And loneliness the abstraction of our day.
What is left of us bows to the obelisk,
A monument to endeavor without risk.
Is there nothing, nothing worth being?
Our only hope is if nothing is fleeting.