The Soul of Query
A Poem is a slender alley of a world, Whose chilled gulp of air unpacks oxygen And steams like Light ushering angst via Caeserean mirrors. Busy earthlings punch paradox in the face With urgent, reflective, individual soul. Uniformity's killingly empty, when appearance Prevails over substance. Editors of existence Expose authum's blushing oak, Drunk in color, picture perfect. But where is the friendly revel of a Picnic without our associates, Ants? Depth, by hook or by crook, intimates and implicates A shallow counterpart. Shall we refrain, or Just sing gratitude? Still the stillness of every small voice Mediates meditations, Soas the deep neither Hide, submerge nor bury conscience, Right or wrong, But rather build bridges from reason To faith, and back, and forth, and back.... Like a massaged, molten mental metal. Nothings' too simple, so I make a clean breast. Maybe my Might, might... Surface, Or risk wasting pain's ecstatic baptism, In the Soul of Query, Alone, unviewed, and unread... Prior to The Garden Of Eden. Written October 4th, 2001 © on Mar 02 2002 02:48 PM PST, Timothy G Cameron 10 • 0 • 9
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"A Poem is a slender alley of a world, ..."