“It’s In the Weakest Hour”
It’s in the weakest hour the heart shines.
Visions through a tainted glass, cultivated cultures of bliss
To no one else suspend the grosser elements of company missed
As darkness glories in the rite of guidance in the rhyme.
The inner rooms shuttered, moonlight withdrawn from judgment refines
The dregs of syllables of opinion to defy all vain comparison
And render witnesses moot in battalions, their orizons
The stuff of nuance and innuendo only; criticisms their lobbyists and spies.
Who among us shares so great a burden
As the head of one’s own state that will not be governed? The weighty brow
And scepter of personal sovereignty bears the blood and thorny crown
Of singularities, responsibilities and some vague ideal catalogue of earnings,
Marination in existence here and now before the final call.
A man who governs seconds in himself must first surrender thrall
To hours that are his. Imagine, then, what I might do were I
The man you think I am and had the time,
The inclination, funds and synergies aligned as planets with crime
The open the goal so many miles above the sty of compromise,
Or the abyss of mere addiction to the accidental end;
The coffin but the obverse to the metaphor of birth,
Entertainment, then, a whaling of the hours in the Dead Sea’s dearth
Of integrity, the bribe and kickback to the entire caveat. My friend.
Imagine, then, that you are on the menu just as much
As any other fool who happens to survive,
As much a “just in time” as any other morning drive
Along the grey-lined riverside. Yes. allow for it. But then, as such,
There’d be little reason to take a bus or book a flight,
And you’d be flattering yourself to take your own sweet time.
“Your poetry is scary,” someone said, and while I thought,
“So, too, are you,” it came to me how strange that what I take for granted
Can be seen by others as so much unnecessary fluff. But planted
As I am so firmly in the soils, so many disconnected letters yet at ought
With no one, no thing, no one’s one-way journey to the scaffold boards
Before me, I am no weighty history, no past mystery to haunt
The halls, no hasty holograms of lasting variations on a theme to vaunt
Because there is no Paganini in my world. I bear no sword
Of imitation inveigling common sense nor thoughts alloyed
With pain to balance vanity with circumstance in value sought.
And yet, there’s room for doubt with what
I’ve written in the main. I look to what I’ve made
Of all I’ve seen or what has passed these many hours
And see indeed the seed is separate from the flowers.