Sunday, April 13, 2014

He to Whom the Bow Belongs

Of All the Psychic Mystic Fools,
That Lie and Cheat and Rarely Tell the Truth
The Ones That Guess the Future Best
Are Those Destined to Foot the Boot.

It Matters Not the Size of Shoe
This Tells Them Not O Where They Step
Nor Color, Texture, Hue, Expense, or Model,
Can Make an Ignorant Man Hep

Previous Roads are Often Thought,
When Sought are Explanations of Depth
But Breadth is Breath,
In Moments Death

For What Makes Man Believe in Cards
And Zodiac and Leaves of Tea
Is not the Magic So Suppressed
But tis the Trick that was set Free.

Magician and Poet, Both Can Impress
Upon the Tabula Rosa Mind
By Catching Patterns Others Miss
Linking Mind with Mind and Kind with Kind

But Neither Artist can Impress
Or Catch A Pattern So Forgot
As He to Whom the Bow Belongs
For he Knows Best his Arrows Shot.

And He Who Dwells on Targets Missed
Or Fortunes Lost, Never To-Be Foretold
Or Rabbits that Died in the Hat
Or the Fact that Old People Get Old

Tis he who Looks Back Upon The Moon
Afraid to Face A Rising Sun
Who Knows Which Road He Will Soon Take
His Own Predictions Often Stun

For No Magician Can Prepare
To Lose On Stage His Magic Hat
Except The One Who Wants His Trick To Be
How He Can Never Find Where Its At.

What Hurts Me Worst
Is While I Hurt
I See You Feel No Pain
And Wonder If It’s Sweet Song
Is Still In Your Refrain

Or If It Ever Even Was
Or If It Can Be.

While Half Of “We”
Is Sad With Grief
It Shows A Morbid Face
The Other Half
Shows No Face At All
Its Soul Has Been Erased.

There's only Darkness Now

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