Inconceivable

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English is a language far too complex,

Ordinary man or scholar it will perplex.

It seems nothing will translate directly,

Because it cannot be expressed correctly.

I find far too often there are no words to describe,

The tumultuous tempests or sunrises inside.

How am I to convey all my soul to you,

And what I believe to be most true?

For you see, the worlds I have seen and those I have not,

Are the wars I have waged and the battles I've fought.

Nothing can impart a stolen midnight's glance,

Or the frigid chinooks with which I dance.

Poet or author, you are simply a captive,

Trying to capture this intangible active.

No one is capable of recounting,

The depths of failure or the achievement's surmounting.

Perhaps it is not simply English at fault,

But the words and barriers that bring us to a screeching halt.

Those stunning moments when you feel elation and longing,

That sense of solitude and of belonging.

The curtain that separates audience from stage,

Is what against I constantly rage.

Nothing will cease in failling to draw it back,

Because it is so much more than the words we lack.

I can never illustrate the intoxicating feeling of telling my life's story to you,

Not simply because it is only something that we Do Not Do.

But because of the impossible strain placed on too few letters,

The finite vowels and consonants - would-be debtors.

They could not withstand all the emotions in this sensation,

All of the experiences encompassed into one summation.

They would be demolished, obliterated, and break,

Only beautiful chaos left in their empty wake.

So the curtain you see and that you cannot,

Is fixed there by the dastardly playwright, For Naught.

For the senses and feelings I cannot tell you are what stand in my way,

Of the words that cannot impart the individual's perception of life's soiree.

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