You speak of sheep,
the modern man asleep at the wheel.
While you, with your vigor and verve,
have your ready muse, pouring forth
from your elegant and tapered fingertips.
You do not see yourself, in the mirror of the parry
and thrust that you use to strengthen your ego
and reinforce the satin thread of your diatribe.
And as I walk your book lined corridor,
to the green walled den, that has your smell
and your superiority stamped onto its silk lined walls.
I yearn to tell you that an opal does not get its fire by learning,
that some things intrinsic and raw, have a power
that intellect has long forgotten.
But my eye is caught by a moth, fluttering,
blustering against the cold hard glass. Shut off
from the majestic trees and the moon, rising
like a great silver disk in the violet sky.
And I see it as an omen,
an oracle speaking in hushed tones,
talking of a deeper truth.
And it cuts so deep, that when
I open your slow and creaking door
and see that there is no light.
And that your studious eyes
are roaming my face like a map.
Looking for my lips. Searching
for the x that marks the spot
where the treasure is buried.
I swallow my tongue, smile,
and don't say a single word.
Written for The Sunday Whirl