The Limits of Being Human

With the pen you may as God pretend,
shades and flesh of all forms create;
but heroes are not made of fanciful ends,
but of their wonted mortal fate.

For what do the people’s paths diverge —
when all rivers yield to the ocean’s call?
Upon death lovers shall never part,
the truth is — death is the union of all.

What mighty sword from the legends you hold,
or mystical forces you may freely wield;
shaping life in your masterful mould,
shall not from the banes of existence shield.

So tell me, my friend, what fortunes await
— when mortality has no roads unbound?
Must I play a fool for the fools’ parade,
or to weep at the summit for the fated plague? 

If the mind could the mindless torrents sway, 
if freedom were to be no longer a curse;
no exit still from our mortal crate,
lest beauty is to be the greatest dearth.

My skin is breathing this evening air,
sensing the workings of dice or dole;
in darkness I see the inky flares
of dreams that summon from a rabbit hole.

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Published in: on 07/07/2018 at 12:57 AM  Leave a Comment  

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To thyself be true my friend

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