Last week I posted a short poem resulting from something I woke up with and wrote down in the middle of the night. This is an experiment in stretching it out:
Seeking silence, can I ever discover
a place as quiet as this?
Yet as intention and supplication draw it nearer,
I yearn for the flowering of solid
in the fields of uncertainty.
Is this the human condition;
are we meant to desire by design,
only to be disappointed upon materialization?
Perhaps this is creation’s essence;
why expansion and contraction exist.
If the gods will it into being,
are they likewise bereft at culmination,
Finally, does this this exemplify the ultimate artistic temperament?
Create, suffer, create –
only to despair that what we envision
can never match, in execution, our fantastic illusion?