no answer

all those leprechaun dreams,
strung together
to appear to be
more than they really were,
all now hanging sadly
from dirty rope clotheslines,
flapping in the breeze:
they bring me to my knees,
and I abort my carefree self,
and ponder upon the elf
that no longer aspires --
who is left with nothing,
no quests,
nothing left,
no desires --
not a thing that makes
the heart race, or
give bright color
to a sullen face:
merely a
down to the still waters
of life's shore;
nothing more,
nothing more,
as existence becomes
something of a bore:
a chore,
a rote to be merely
carried out,
something to do,
something to do;
all that one could create,
in favor of nothing,
enamored of no one,
left to starve,
with not a morsel
to invigorate;
life's time travels
much too fast, and
not even the strong
can outlast
its speeding course,
delivering shadows
and ultimately,
for all that is passed,
context blithely
it is only
in the full moon,
that all we should see,
is rendered:
on hind legs,
as we howl,
we catch a glimpse
of what went by us:
the mysteries
of this life,
which laugh,
and still defy us;
we stand still,
and perhaps,
for just a moment
there courses
through us
a silent thrill,
as we see that
fully revealed
to those kneeling,
and also to those
this answer,
this vignette,
that today we still seek,
and its absence,
and our presence,
makes us evermore
buoyed by myth
and fable,
we stumble on,
each day able only
to see the next one,
and the next one,
and the next one,
until we are at last
and the story is left
to be told
to those now young,
soon to be old:
there is no answer.

March 29, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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