adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, January 01, 2015

Shards, a poem


What words? None complete this,
none carry me far enough.
I only fling what I have
into the waiting darkness.

Much goes unsaid; that has
ever been so. We can but chip
away at the infinite,
display our shards and pretend

to wisdom. Surely knowing
something, saying something,
has, too, its value.
So what if the gods laugh

at our pretenses? There are
things beyond them, as well.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

The last poem of 2014, completed last night, appearing this morning. Looking into my files, I see I had used the title before, back in '03, but I reckon there is nothing wrong with recycling.

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