| The calm is deceptive: the disguise is complete; It is only underneath; aye, the cauldron boils; What awaits us? Where is the source? And too, That miracle; that special warranty we cherish, Where there is only chance; we seek for what we Will never understand; even if it is held securely In our hands. We cherish, we exult, we have our Small triumphs; the panoply of events; the sheen Of life; it is here the image exceeds the values. There is no set pattern; afterwards we rue our Deliberations; inner conscience, too, is a happier Moment: stilled in fantasy; our mask hiding the True identity; it is a costume ball; can't you See that? We are dressed, the color, the excited |
Extravaganza; the eyes bright, and, so, ah yes, We parade, like mannequins, for our little charade. This, my lad, is the wall; that veil of the actor's Assumption of character; the seeming, or being, What is not; the incompleteness of it all; when We seek to recover from the pedestrian gestures of Small minds; then we are nothing, or perhaps, less Than nothing; to some, this is part of the game, But to others, the bottom is shallow; they cannot Countenance the deliberate pretense; the stubborn Question persists; with that coming of truth; and, The specter which lives dormant, comes. Look, do We expect better? It is the ghost of self, living proof, Get it, of our connection to something remote; a Reality beyond reality? A compulsion, hidden away. |
