In a context of confusion and flashy journalism, rigour becomes a precious value.
I wish I could whisper to your desires, ‘There is more. Much more.’
TO THOSE WHO'LL LISTEN
To a friend.
What a flimsy raft is the unexamined life,
A well unplumbed,
A feast uneaten,
How can eyes be ajar and yet not see,
Or ears be hollow but fail to reverberate?
I wish I could whisper to your desires,
‘There is more. Much more.’
But my thoughts cannot be your thoughts,
For they inhabit different pages in a different book,
But still I long,
I long to edge open the door’s beaming light
And gently lead you into the dance.
But who am I?
Just another blind man learning
What shapes and colours must be like,
A proud one at that,
With hints of a patronising paternalism,
Is this an abundance of redundances?
Are my words spent like evaporated dew?
I have to give what I can,
And trust, yes grasp- to Faith,
That a human heart can be tenderised,
That willingness can be sown,
But in the process I feel the solitude,
Of one who sees a tapestry in every fleeting glimpse,
Who hears a heartbeat in the footsteps and machines,
But whose fellows seem content to
Lick the icing, but never…
Words are like a gift,
In language I create very near ex-nihilo,
Together with the one who calls,
I join in the song and
Sing to those who’ll listen.