I was struggling with purpose as a writer, not having anything new to say
What can I say to convey meaning
Beyond what has already been said? Show
me, anyone, an explanation
to dispute what uncertainty bestows:
knowledge is a vapor, a barren field
waiting endlessly fallow
despite the persistence of man as the
seed in pursuit of wisdom that we sough.
For whom, though he searches, could fathom
The wisdom of heaven or earth below?
And if I search for myself, eminence
To gain, what lasting value have I found?
For in my death, fame is dust upon the ground.
If life is a hunt, once a scavenger,
I, foraging the earth and stars collecting
bits of knowledge left by the avatars
of intellect. For nothing is new, no
thought original, found palaver
to be the language of the naïve, but
poetry was buried in places where
sages stood. In my vain attempt
to inspire with my own words, find their
works to overshadow. Each verse written leaves
readers reminiscent of another.
If wisdom comes in forms of poetry,
then how can I help but plagiarize?
As I uproot them I am left behind.
Can I truly find meaning in the face
Of eternity? In the passing of
a moment my memory is erased.
The footprints I’ve left are lost in
the feet that mark the path through life we take.
A condition cast upon me from birth-
I am but a vessel of dust, still I ache
To ascend into the firmament
Where the clay that seals my eyes shut will break
To the gleam of understanding. I once
negligible to the world, now awake
from the mystery of my misery:
I cannot paint the beauty that I see
So now you give me words though I cannot speak?