SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days

Termites and good intentions

The Value of Good Wood

When the termites discover my woodwork
they gnaw at my ego,
they gnaw on good intentions
until they look bad
and I have to wonder
what was I thinking.

I can store my craft.
I can set out to kill them all,
tedious, as if
one by one.
Why are they so hungry
for my craftwork?

I could polish good intentions
until less ambiguous
shine.
But, termites don't know
the value of wood.



It's a poem that wants to say more, but if I did, then it would lose luster.

Irony ▼

The irony is I write poetry to be understood. If my words don't translate, I'm vague.

From my vantage: ▼

I've been crowing from the top of this mast for some time. I'm told it's safer to get below.

What if you could teach your teacher something. Would they willingly become your student?

One more thing: ▼

I'm pretty enough to get asked to the dance. Why am I setting up chairs or asked to work concessions year after year?

discourse in rambling ▼

Each word could be a shining pearl of wisdom. Now, let's rearrange them, apply different meaning. Now, what have I said? Wait! Drop in and out of context, marinate with loss of time, inability to respond, indifference from some, ignorance by others, sprinkle with bias, Machiavellian invention, and...wait. What was I saying? Exactly.

You don't know.