Smaller than an Atom (a poem).
What use to poem,
If there is neither reason,
nor rhyme.
A play on words,
Mere syntax.
Drab syllables,
Placed here,
Or.................................. there.
Or else,
Recorded events and emotions,
Played out as the needle spins
Atop vinyl. Played out.
Round and round.
Round and round.
No hope of change,
No desire to instruct.
Round and round.
Round and round.
Left our hearts to pound.
To the rhythm of the poets sound.
I desire neither that auspiciousness,
Nor the command that such poetry brings,
Even if the whole World were of my virtue, to sing.
But rather, for me,
To instruct is the height
Of all that I can be.
Would be,
Should be.
To shed some bare light
On the World's follies,
To instruct in the secrets of
The luminaries.
Secrets never meant to be,
Only that they have been lost.
Tarnished,
By the false interpretation of men whose words are but ghosts.
For they take what is real,
Live.
not surreal.
Them twist and turn,
And with a snakes forked tongue,
Change all that is said and done,
Into all that they want remembered and sung.
And by that they kill,
The lush spirit of the luminaries will.
But not so, is my wish.
To unwind and unsing their pittiless songs,
Full throttle against their rile,
Their contemptuous rattle and din.
Against their arrogant pride,
For the rationalists, us they chide.
Poke fun and belittle,
All that they cannot comprehend.
But smaller still are they
Who cannot see the miracle
In every atom of their being
In every sight peering from their seeing,
In every syllable that vents from me,
Shimmying down expanding corridors till it reachs my listeners ears.
And finds expression and meaning,
Resonating, reverberating within.
What chance is that that syllable doth resonate?
And can cause you to both beam and cry and ask questions of why?
Such rationalusts are incomprehensible.
Who cannot see the beauty in all that we have been given.
Who believe in their self,
Above all else.
Small as fools,
Giants, only, within their pride.
The END.
By Shafi Bachelani.
Glory be to GOD, most High,
Who provided us with light,
That we might see,
And words,
That we might understand.
And yet sometimes words carry meaning beyond their evident import.
I enjoy Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll.
