16 May


How the sun does rise,
albeit, perhaps unwilling,
as if given a choice,
to seed the horizon
with a form of fire;
tho’ it does not move,
but in illusory perception,
and for this vague illusion,
we think ourselves newborn
upon its perceived return.

Like the illusion of sunrise,
this kind of ill perception
is but vague and transient,
like the substance of a heart,
measured by vain standards,
attributed with human airs
for both love and disdain,
yet merely flesh and muscle,
unjustly held as metaphor.

And by what staid reasoning,
with idle minds unfettered,
shall we brave the question
of why we tremble at life,
instead of grasping firmly
the allotment of fortune,
this tangible course of us,
not perceived by the heart,
nor moved by illusory sunrise,
but held as human condition,
if only to act upon our dreams.

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Posted by on May 16, 2016 in My Poetry



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