Quagmire

The fire of the day dies
In the passionate embers of dusk.
And here we sit.
Living our lives
Planned out and scheduled in little neat color-coded calendars
While our Earth whirls around in the galaxy
Like dancers absorbed by the waltz.
We do not fathom
The world beyond
Though we might try.
 
In one corner
Insignificant to most
A lone writer works
Hoping to
Create
Capture
A piece of that cosmos.
But even the artist is not
God.
 
A single child
Caught in the enigmatic
Discoveries of life
Questions with a mind
Malleable and
Dubious
The empowered claims
Of this species.
 
And dwelling in both writer and child
Spouts the maximum capacity
To feel.
 
Good
Bad
Love
Emotion
Hindered by
The walls we build up
To protect ourselves from the universe
The unknown.
This industrial barricade
A bacchanal hiding
Our fear
Self
And
Insecurities.
We are clouded by limitations.
 
But these few
The artist
The youth
Those who express
Fully
Preserve their own sincerity
In the universal amber museums.
They last while the rest will evanesce
Into
Nothingness.
 
So here is existence.
A chaotic sarabande
Of the superior menial
The purportless significant.
There is too much to encompass
In a single brain
And I find my words failing
As I realize my own
Mortality.
 
We are beads of dew
Skimming along the threads of
A web.
And the web is nothing more
Or less
Than an overlooked corner
In the grand
Unfolding
Castle.

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