Pretext For A Dream

A Poem on writing and inspiration.

10/16/20222 min read

Pretext For A Dream

The playful heaviness

Of an empty line.

The heavy playfulness of abandoned time.

The hills of books,

In the corner nook,

Swept away (far away) in and out of mind

By the running voice and line of T. S. Eliot's Rhymes.

What of the same?

The world still moves,

Does it not, not move the same?

Must we, shall we,

Acknowledge it aloud.

Have we not been made lame,

By the Addictions of the m.oan,

Better known as mobile phone.

Before Or After

There is no stillness, Mocking away as we Will Away, away time, Killing time, making little of it. Belittling it, on the last day of March. The eyes are turning in the darkness, the flames are flickering out now, Time's candle is near surely quenched. The time to leave, The time to go, The time to kill, When time is slow down, down into the refracted sounds Of Orpheus's cursed, but long silenced gates. The Long Look Forward Too, Longing and moving forward to, The abyss that awaits Those counters of time, Who, of a mind, forget to live, Within the essence of time, That is to say: The PRESENT. A present made, From the Atlassian weight of waiting. Deceived in the middle, Squandered about, On the edge of wisdom. In the age of doubt, We all go about in the dark. Socrates's cave is still in Athens, Though the poison has long dried. We move in darkness with nothing, nevermore, to think about. Are we still not ready? The laughter, Ha Ha has gone quiet. ... How soon, will time become, once again, older than those counted on a watch, Counted on the lines of a face, felt in the weather, Or heard above the soft, distant, dying sounds of traffic. Counted Time has an end. You can count on that. The withered screens, Of broken or abandoned phones. New technology but a patterned past, The moonlit journey now gone in hast, The covered pass of life's train, Time: the darkened hole of a hollowed hill, gone over or about, tis something still. A Year gone now, Since the Suez Canal, & though the ships came free, so did the piled up debris of our inhumanity. It's been noticed. The lowered tides of sand, Whip about the outdated, but once termed common man. Though spun from many a' prophet-less land, The thread of time is surely grasped by the wayward, weird sisters. For how long, must we wander about online, out of time, Now each of us, full voiced mimes and entertainers. The Fresh Prince has now fallen, The King long is dead. In theory, thought and voice. The words, mere ghosts, Transparent and fleeting, Like Nijinsky mind. To end it here, perhaps, Out of luck, Out of talent or Indifference.