I think it altogether a horror that, in this modern moment of ours, we are held to the notion of a repressed muse. Or am I merely ignorant of worldly views? Hope is not the word! Tell me, how can it be that such changes have occurred? To be born a poet in these later years is something my very soul wished not be! I know this to be nothing but a truth I cannot change! But please, allow for an apology of such an outburst; I seek only the simple matter of empathy. Somewhere in this world of ours must be one to hold such belief, no matter their physicality; it is well to co-exist. If I must round both spheres of His planet, it is my wish to see this journey through to its conclusive end. So be it if they fail to see the greatness of poetic justice!

Relevance. More and more apparent it seems, is the universal struggle to maintain a sense of self-truth, all the while expected to adapt, evolve, and become knowing of these changing times. But I begin to ignore their eternal sentiment. Subjected to this force is the whole of His designed plan. As gravity, it is all encompassing, sparing no one of its eminence. Surely, this is applicable to the poet’s current ordeal, but you’ve to think of all the others as well. Does the carpenter not adapt his plans when in possession of a greater design? Does the gardener not find it difficult to make growth without first tilling the soil? Does the scientist see any furthering of cause if they do not experiment time and again? And yet, the carpenter builds, the gardener grows, and the scientist persists. So you see, the smallest inkling of origin is required of all professions, whether of man’s skilled complexity, or nature’s artful simplicity.

What then, of those persons indelible, able as few others to refrain from change? For they’ve the inertia of “disregarded” thought; rebellion courses their veins as gladness in the ardent believer. The heart of the matter is in perception. These “people of stone” perceive themselves as either incapable of the needed change, or beyond it. Far within the realm of human thought are these two greatest of dynamics: superiority and insecurity. Those that believe in change cannot force it upon those who do not think in a like-minded way. They must ease the naysayers into an agreeable state before considering full fledged diplomacy. The poetic factions to swiftly rise upon indifference would return to no better a residence than the one they now know. But, contradicting the beliefs of the dissenters themselves, they are not, and never will be, beyond change.

I say, “I am here.” He says, “you are there.” However simple, this fundamental aspect of empathy is ruler of consequence. Ignorance to this fact is understandably a part of human nature, and thus in need of discussion. It is said that “ignorance is bliss.” This cannot be said with any more certainty than “greatness is the furthest shadow.” No, ignorance is opportunity! Just as worldly exploration births a smaller playing field, knowledge does also. Knowledge of this life can no more be undone than a weld at the blacksmith's hand can be undone. Conversely, those persons ignorant, fools or no, may be brought to see the scholarly view; to be released of their unknowing. They are molded as the clay pot by those mirror-fearing sculptors. It is far more easily done to fill the empty than to drain the full. The mind shall obey the soul’s sharpest of commands, regardless of will. But is well that we are imperfect, provided the proper explanation: wisest of wise is He to see that a perfect world may bear no new fruit. I proceed as the winged one that returns to the sylvan trunk upon searching the furthest branch. I’ve a hope that a welcoming openness may be found here.


May I apply for poetic license? Have faith, being only for the good of my reader that I ask this. Be now within the grips of imagination; logic may fall behind for a time to no effect. Without, I deeply doubt I’ve the ability to allow comprehension. Behold!

The dying poet upon his death bed, unable of all things but to speak in revelations. Not to say that this is either commonplace or a rarity, only to talk of its being; rather mundane, as far as such things as intervention go, the superior words being “heavenly realism.” Time now the poet’s pulse has left, a fate akin to his once doubtful mind. Are we not all poets once upon our deathbeds, awaiting one who is unimaginably superior of verse? I believe this to be the purpose of poetry; for if we cannot understand and communicate by way of verse among ourselves, to think how difficult it will be to traverse the grounds of a higher cause! To think we do not believe poetry relevant!