2016 04 26
Blind bard sits quiet and alone on bench
outside steel tower of first national bank,
and watches dim shadows of voiceless souls
move swift across white globe of glowing light.
"I have always teetered on tedious edge
of existential crisis, slouching mute
outside quaint theater of social drama.
I built grand cathedral of epic action,
so vast in its endless conceptual maze
encompassing all fields of lyric vision,
that every poet chanting spells of dreams
wanders free its endless halls of expression.
Though they grope its high walls of verbal tropes,
picking thought-grapes from philosophic vines,
they remain unaware they move inside
involute corridors of my domain.
Their poems are fragile little leaves of thought
that blossom from sprawling tree of my epic,
sprouting as parts from my complete vision,
for all their visions cut from memories
are small puzzle pieces that catenate
as fragments with each other to compose
comprehensive world view my song designs.
They play their individual instruments,
pretending they play alone their own song,
but I direct their many little songs
to compose immense symphony of tunes
that vibrates rich in harmony of feeling,
woven together in whole tapestry
of world-shrouding vision my epic binds.
My epic forms firm ground on which they build
quaint houses of poetic contemplation
for concepts of its weaving lines of verse
remain as hills and rivers sparkling bright
long after performers on stage of pride
shout their flashing moment of spoken word
then vanish in silent singing of wind.
My epic endures like mountain of truth
while their songs sprout and vanish lost like flowers
so I remain after wind snuffs their lies."
Blind bard of Avalon falls over dead,
then ambulance whisks his body to morgue
where no one attends his small funeral.
Tina scatters his ashes in warm wind
where blue birds chirp in apple trees that sprout
from mountain of minerals soaked by rain.
No one ever notices he is gone
nor gathers in parks to recite his dreams.