Poetic Trifles

I care not for gilded tales

of ruby lips,

nor for flowery meanderings

down paths of nature,

cascading words like lilting streams,

nor even for that cloaking darkness

that weakly veils less than forgotten pains,


These are mere poetic trifles,

exercises in word-craft skill,

or so boring,

so mind-numbingly trivial,

another aimless haiku

with no thought,

and no soul.



I hunger for truths,

for Truth itself.

My heart burns to witness universality conquered

and confined to the page,

to read of myself,

of all man in the context of all that is.

Speak to me of perception within the great vastness

of Being.

Speak to me guiding words

of the depths of Why

arrayed in robes of bejeweled free verse,

or proclaimed brashly through screeching,

unwieldy rhymes,


These poetic trifles –

they bore my senses.



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