2016 05 13
Though he may swing his dullish sword of words
while I play flute and shepherd lonely herds
of wingless angels, mute among dead trees,
his laws will never chain the carefree breeze
that causes wavering towers of steel and glass
to shiver with clowns on the mountain pass.
I hope to map the new world we invent
even though blind preachers try to prevent
our journey to the secret promised land
and steal the compass from my guiding hand
because we need to know the obvious way
through the labyrinth where lost lovers pray.
I am not the world savior you expect
though with my flashlight I come to inspect
the miniature paradise you designed
hoping to escape drama she defined
that traps you in the hell which you prefer
since our names and faces fade to dark blur.
I admire how you remain innocent
and sweet with loving care you leave unspent
though life is rent with suffering and pain
that cannot be washed away by cold rain
even as we walk holding hands to find
ideal world you see only in your mind.
You sailed the sea of storms in fragile boat
from ancient misty island where crows float
on restless winds that blow your way far west
where I continue your forgotten quest
and play the serious clown on small church stage
to show how Hamlet constructed his cage.
Locked thirty years in dark asylum ward,
she plays King Arthur with sharp shining sword
to free everyone from mindless despair
but herself, in torn dress and tousled hair
wandering hallways of whispering wind and light,
and wishes she could set everything right.