oil on board
20 x 28-1/4
Like as the waves make for the pebbled shore,
So our minutes hasten to their end. The
Bard's perspective, the Sonnet's keen look at our
Tenure: the lowering count of remaining years
Is an ever-present thought, and particularly so,
When age takes its inevitable course downward.
Oh how I wish it were otherwise; I dream
Countless dreams, but alas, dreams are only dreams,
And reality's harsh truths lay even more heavily
On my conscience. Why do we think of what
Is to be, rather than what was? Or, perhaps, another
Way; that tricky vain fiction of the mind that allows
Incipient wishes to pulse like salient truths, when,
In fact, we know, they are only the disillusionment of
An uncertain present. In truth, come on, there is no
Paradise, nor that which is short of a gaudy Nirvana;
Blown-up fairytale fantasy? The misery of each day
Is only matched by an aggrieved mind; it
Tortures itself; hung, yes, by its own misgivings.
We are not the certain creatures of imagination;
We are only ideas posturing with performer's tricks.
To some, we are the clowns: it is enough; for in
That special world of self-determination, the
Fanciful is predominant: the laugh, the acting,
That side presented to the world, carries the day.
And, most congenially, we ride gracefully,
In our golden chariot to the edge of the grave;
Never knowing, accepting, the grim realities.
And beyond this? Is it the void barely parted?
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