Requiem

 Requiem 

A poem that mourns what is lost when depth is mocked—and quietly honors those who still dare to descend into the well.

Maybe like you?

(A lone voice whispers)

How sad is a mind that abstains from the pleasures and beatitudes of the incredible kind?

And the thoughts of the highs and lows of life and all the many diverse moods it includes?

 The art reflected in words of an illuminated heart, only there to try to tear it apart with sharpened claws.

The flaws and causes reflected in new or old poetic laws.

Some revelations may appear untrue depending on where the guitar music goes. But the more you know as you drown in the flow and embrace its icy blast.

Maybe you'll finally understand at last.

Stories conjured with rare magic from the deep purple well, like a whispered incantation or spell, are just created to keep the curious sated.

As they swallow all on a page but to then scorn a thing that took an age to write—can that be right?

As a wise man once said to fools who pleaded for more as they waited in King Solomon's courts,

 "Wouldst thou tear the branches from the bough of the tree of knowledge until all grow as dull as thee?

So stay your tongue and wait and see. For soon you'll be sated.”

For happy are those who embrace all prose or art 

Good or bad, if they know how hard it is to go to where a poet or artist goes.

To the deep purple well to conjure with a spell.

Prose for eyes in hidden blue skies to consume when they ring their bell.

Hiding with ease behind swaying trees in a supernatural breeze inside their cells.

To help them sing with life while under its spell when they enter into its visceral hotel.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Image shared under fair usage policy.