We are not anywhere but
like projections
from the starry firmaments
to there return
then cast down again
in another time
and place.
But so few remain of us
for all gave up
to put the divine sparks
into hearth;
it is all but speculation
how to exploit
it instead.
I've writ enough for a lifetime
of studies
with nothing in return,
for details
it was a life I wasn't invited for
a dream outside my door
and inside yours.
For it is all for a show instead
of to know,
nor wise of it become
to talk of it:
I am but a doorstep away from
both heaven and hell
but both refuse.
What matters then to create
when doors
remain closed, locked
it is all to go
but if I do - they flock around
to know of wise or not
is to become.
Then scurry away and I am alone
to paint with
words, letters and signs
another world
which could have existed if
only you had been
with me in it.
But it's anothers existence now
I am not there
for to be a waymaker
there must be
a reason to then return;
I have none because
you forgot me.
|