Your Poetry Dot Com - An Opus Staged For Endless Mirth

When the dye of life soaks in us with certitude,
no bleach of action can remediate,
Lo! All this time spent gaining traction
from even earlier stains we must ameliorate.
Guitars can wail and moan the blues,
violins float to sorrow, sing to soul,
piano keys tap softly to an ivory loss,
in concert each, our silent burdened dross.
The ceaseless heart naively beats in time,
in both preparation for, and the climb,
yet over and over new plateaus unfold,
the illusion ever of that mountain top;
the gasp and step, the rest and plod
to find yet again illusion's bile
'ere breathing air of zenith's crop.
A smile!
Anew a peak looms just beyond,
the final one we trust?
(all dismays before absorbed and cindered)
But false again, oh foolish us!
But moments, years, a lifetime later
we don the pack and back to where we've been,
and when the mind pats (at last) mind's back,
“My Boy, you've grown!”, the ego cackles-
no friend there, beware, and so
growth's charade is gagged on yet again
as heart and soul return to shackles.
So many times this climb and fall,
these highs and lows- now our soul's unwanted
guests;
this ever climbing heart; of all the rues,
by far the grandest jest,
and with enough attempts at gaining wisdom
it's now appears that peak (oh, mighty font!)
of peaks,
is just life laughing howling, (speak!), but no,
amorphous playwright of most jolly girth;
our billion souls the cast and crew
in an opus staged for endless mirth.

This poem is Copyright © Invierno