The Bard's Conundrum

By: Naught Posted on: July 27, 2011

As I watch the cities fill and empty
In their endless respiration, the way of all things,
My ears prick up to hear the whisper of the Lord Bard.
Perhaps it is not He, but my imagination who speaks,
Yet my frantic scribbles cannot keep pace with His syllables,
And His perfect verse gives way to weak rhyme
As it travels through the imperfect medium that I am.

With each stroke of ink,
I flay the meat from Opportunity and Possibility.
Their multilingual screams go unheard under the roar of
The tip of my pen
Is a scalpel, wide as a genre.
The act of creation destroys imagination,
Just as an alchemist's concoctions merge their useful ingredients
Into a potion of one purpose.

I level a dense rainforest of ideas, grinning with the momentum
Whittling all my thoughts down to a point,
So that from the edgeless heavens in my mind,
What I utter comes out as a precious stone.
Polished and concise,
Visibly beautiful to all,
But a poor likeness of my untamed thought.