There’s beauty in the world, they say,
in the honey-yellow sun slinking down
the grey, pastel sky, merging with the
horizon, eventide apocalypse,
in the expressionist dancing with
meraki, tossing paint on the canvas,
a bizarre amalgamation of thought
and impetus,
in the quivers of lovemaking, the
shudders of last breaths – Eros and
Thanatos carrying a sojourner to
selcouth worlds,
even in the coarse, mop cloth if you
look closely, and the taste of
the cigarette as it burns the throat.
But I’m more interested in how we
of little acumen and light further
the cause of a greater, scintillating
wisdom, how we, though flawed and
finite usher in infinity’s rule.
Does that mean we’re not free?
Just marionettes incapable of
transcendence, animated by
unparagoned grace?
Is our irresistible elan and charisma
an illusion?
The answers to those questions
are beyond our reach, akin to
understanding some Orphic
figure of myth who prophesied
and retreated into himself when
the minds of curious men, shot
forth cognitive limbs to
reach him and strip away his
enigmatic allure.
I’d rather let the flames of ecstasy
consume me, a spark within
becoming a wildfire when in a
pensive mood, and think of
those on the brink of destruction
who fought time and space
and being and non-being
to usher themselves back into
life’s choir, singing a song of
triumph that gives them a sense
of closure, an impression of
the nature of the whole.
For dVerse
Photo by Sina Katirachi on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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