Postmodern Sages
Postmodern sages will awake from the blood-beat plows
Of the better fools’ veins, bravely willing to sprout
Free-spirited into the open-air yet ancestrally rooted,
They remember their history and learn from its bruises.
The harvesters of universal metaphors on how to cry,
To grieve, to dry tears, then sowers of these seeds’ sigh
For full moon’s torch lit eyes to lift again.
All this, outside the desert of a blank page
Miraged by dictatorial lines. An expedition took up readily
Without the expectation of perfectionism’s enmity―
That is left to death―precipitous troubles rise,
But they humbly fall at the sea’s open kiss lines.
Such experience shall be narrated and retold in airs
Where doubt threatens to fold arms, cross legs
At the knees and the ankles than to withstand tension,
The pain of fully-fledgling wings―or such potential;
Encouragers of the unknown, but not naive
Of its existential recklessness and malice between;
There’s no greater force of nature than this surrender,
In these waters that drown, when left uncried under.
