There are moments
Which are like music,
When all concretes are made mist,
And words resign themselves to a limbo of undefinition,
Vague delusions of substance
Which seem plucked like grains of sand from
A shore of senses,
Yet which give way to air upon closer scrutiny.
And I ask...
Whose ocean is this?
What vessel of words may grant me passage there?
When truths give way to maybes,
How shall I sift dreams with utterances?
Shall I dance with probabilities
And make my bed with ethereal Faith?
The earth gives way to the turbulence of vapors,
And melodies become unrestrained, devilish,
Contorting into a cacophony of winds.
Hopes beget primal urges,
Urges beget unconscious -isms,
And I fear the swift onset of madness,
And know again why men scorn these things.
George Chadderdon © 1994