Balance & Potentiality

Such a myth, a thing to see

this entropy: unreachable to you or me,

this thing that cannot be, in a den of thieves

filled with the smoke of burning paper and leaves, all of which achieves

nothing more than a corner of blue sky

caught in Fyodor’s expectant eye and though he may try

to see over the wall, he remains so minute, so small, so sick and tired of it all

that a spirit creeps into vistas of the Neva,

before a man with a fever sets off to do something of note,

perhaps breathe his final quote, his worn soul left afloat

in a woodworm riddled boat with just one paddle.

 

But who am I to saddle this burden upon the only one

that all along has been a believer in “just fuck her and leave her”,

basking in the torrid stench of a dying star

which has offered nothing save a scar.

 

Irrespective of doubt and all things considered

there is no “without”, just a reaction triggered

by an overused leitmotif: if reconfigured, not abused

might not this chief gather up his dear strength to lift the fountain,

no longer man, now a mountain, becoming in one motion

at one with the ocean and breed the seed

that could become like Moses ‘mongst the reed…

a key, uncut.

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