“It is better to fail in originality than to succeed
in imitation. He who has never failed somewhere,
that man cannot be great.”
Superlative, anxious falter, how you grace me:
You, the irons in my ambitious fire, thrust deeper
than sorrow into the furious embers;
You, the undetectable fracture in love;
You, the tidal moaning over the graves
of causes deferred.
The silence elongates you, unfurls you
into a shivering frailty. How heavy
your notes. How seizing
When the whole world opens wide, I
close my eyes. How alone.
However, your immediate chasm
does not swallow, only invites a root.
I, no riveted tree, no fist from one plot,
Will hide from the sun when I need reprieve,
But even then the horizon, like a flowering limb,
Bends to a precocious whim.
Copyright 2011, 2014 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.