There is a blackness that sits encased between my conscious and subconscious. The solutions are based on undefined problems. I'm truly tired. Not weary mind you, but tired. I can't process it, any of it. The tired doesn't spring from labor or business, but from answers I don't want to know and feelings I don't want to own. My mind struggles for a coherent alignment of reality with my emotions, my heart turns a deaf ear and cries silently at the possibilities and impossibilities. The poet still clings tenatiously, now tentatively to a cliff above an abbyss. The words rhyme, but they have no soul.
The aged warrior has killed the bard.
The child tried to resurrect it,
But resurrection takes time and the ability to hold on to belief
To believe in purpose and cling blindly to truth that can only be felt.
The child turns to sing with the bouncy sweet popular unprincipled idiots
The sirens of youth and desire feed an unknown longing
They distract the heart from a sworn value, a determined purpose.
And so the aged warrior’s knowing insistence breaks in
Condemning this and that it gains strength though not mobility
The child simply shrugs, laughs and bounces away
As the bard gasps a song with its dying breath.
The picture is from the Little Missouri River in Western Arkansas.
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