Sunday, November 11, 2018

The Pointing


In some aerie a fabled library soars;
On its myriad scrolls each truth is told,
The secrets behind all hidden doors,
Knowledge dearer than mountains of gold;
Intricate curves and dots and lines
Conspire to trap the facts as signs.
So dreams the world-weary sage,
Wasting his best years with books;
The farce playing out on stage
Pales next to ink on yellowed page.
He points to the exit and a dog looks
But sees no ghostly cue in the hand;
Staring dumbly the beast sits still,
The gesture lost like a diamond in sand.
None follows too the inky trail of his quill:
In their trendy charades the thinker’s ignored;
He haunts the town below like a wraith;
Only the deaf and blind are adored
Who know nothing but keep the faith.
To deathless atoms learning’s a sideshow,
A gilded map to nowhere,
Pointless as a severed big toe.
When he awakens to the nightmare
He sets the sorted scrolls ablaze,
The rising smoke offending no one;
His protest fades like the guru in the maze
That has no welcome or escape:
Until exhausted he may run
Before collapsing in a daze,
As one in dying with the landscape.



No comments:

Post a Comment