A Too Formidable Endeavour
Date: Sunday, 6th July 2014 @ 12:45:06 PM AEST Topic: Sad Poetry
Contributed By: invierno
My fingers stall....
How to wrap them into the tapping,
producing the poem summing up all;
reducing deducing the ebb and the flow
to that almighty summation, in apathy waiting,
just behind that invisible wall.
An hour of staring, no answers appearing-
a sentence retracted, redacted times beyond number;
with silence so blaring, a cosmos unsparing,
perhaps there's a reason this summation so slumbers.
One might as well write of glorious love,
Though of this all knowing pie I hope to be baking,
as grand as love is, it's 'ere but a slice.
This endeavor I've set, lofty indeed,
With hours expired, fool that I am, rube I must be-
Millions of pens, (my ego forgot)
from charcoal on reeds to Monte Blanc perfection
and all in between,
have grappled and wrastled, just as I am-
But yay and hooray! I've found my way free!
Down with my pen,
(my yard beckons you see- I heard the grass calling, now don't laugh at me),
thus now I confess, my ego at rest, (ever good)
as of course it should be,
I say to the sky and things without ears
I can't do in an hour what far greater minds
have failed to find in millions of years;
I may be a poet, though still just a man,
penning this pie a slice at a time;
the summation so great, I'm afraid it must wait
for that curtain to part when I kick the can.
This poem is Copyright © invierno
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