Condemned to experience true splendor
Only from a distance
Forever reliant upon the second hand glow
Emitted by others
Endlessly yearning to grasp it, to harbor it
If only for a moment, before it is destroyed
A lone, voracious, restless black hole
among brilliant beacons of light
Defined within, and thus confined to a
Crude, insufficient resolution
Grappling hopelessly with delicate nuance
Always obscured by a veil of confusion
Pathetically upheld by mantras of platitudes
Clinging on to sweet, uplifting lies
Wary of their glaring falsehood
But turning a blind eye
Seeking to sculpt beauty
Out of life's precious matter
With mangled hands, swollen and blunt
Eventually smashing and defiling all
To capture and to convey poetry
In the harsh tounges of a primitive language
Inevitably cursing and degrading all
The true horror is not that of failure;
Which is everpresent
Rather it is the feeling, the notion of stasis
The complete and utter absence of refuge or change
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