contemplativeSpill the Words
Words wait to be spilled,
to be written when barriers drop.
Too much of a good thing they say,
too little finding its way to pen.
The entire world is the source,
too little in the breadth of so much.
Water water everywhere,
this is the same for the Muse's charge.
Too much beauty fills my world,
competing with equal ugliness.
Somewhere in-between I seek expression
of sum picture at the zero point.
The hills echo back the muted tones,
ahead the mountains are to be climbed.
Rock is the stone underfoot,
diamonds in which naught may grow.
I am not aberrant in my lack,
others have struggled against a foe
wholly part of probable creator
yet still defying dedication to phrase.
Perhaps if I could docilely frame
the creatures too much for words,
these beings of emotion's source,
that squirm away from my pen.
If only the raw could be said,
the human condition put on display.
I'd be the same after that,
but your vision of me would then change.
So I'll spill the words with no regard
to what may follow to my soul
when you realize humanity's taint
was what waited when words arrived.
© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160320.
