Castle gate to tree – part of the 7th traveller
Distorted faces, fueled by Bacchus light, pass in pointless fury.
No sense or reason for this gathering grim,
for stretching maleness, showing no fear, and reveling in that of others.
Down to the river and back to the day, as badges herd puffed up youth
from the settled fields of ordinary folk, who in pens of safer times
despise and envy the distant remains of what once they were.
On the plain or parked in some other place,
a daring now disabled,
locked away, but bubbling under
though generally loosing water,
new thoughts of change are marred by patterns, predicted styles
Beauty found in structure, never sought
when marveling at chaos.
Bright chaos in non-specific panoramas
He censors plagiaristic tendencies
ignoring the pleasures of sameness, whilst copying from a lesser form,
not quite wrong, but futile.
He sees the end
and gasps –
penitent reflections on all that came before,
to join the game
and play it well
there is greatness to be humble.
But angry voices pierce his thoughts and take him home to devil
raise his heart in rabble lost, of childish spring and wager
cannot progress or make his mends,
trapped between within the tempest.
One choice only can be made
the fluid or the brick.
But lonely water will stagnate
and bricks are built of madness
all is one or nothing lost
and all goes on regardless.