A Final Try

It is that sense of bitter frustration,
whose result is a kind of awakening, as if from a deeper sleep
than you have ever imagined,
body tense, brain refusing to think,
making you attempt to move
in a manner now difficult, if not impossible,
from static immobility to a more accelerated endeavor,
to a sense
that for that next effort,
you will be seeing, like Job, into the innards
of a whirlwind,
and that finally, hopefully, you will be in a more comprehending
mode, which may permit you, a hope, perhaps, a dream,
to actually bind with this supervening existence.

I mean, to be at one. If only for the moment.
But it is only desperation,
that leads, like a master with a chain,
from the complacency
into which we all, eventually fall,
when youth’s momentum has been dissipated.
It is like a hormonal depletion,
and we, poor creatures, must suck
some sort of social satisfaction
from whatever
we had previously achieved.

Is it memory upon which we are depending?
Like taking out some prior accomplishment,
and exploring its components
to determine if it can be
expanded, improved,
like a word in a poem
that now seems redundant.
Time really goes both ways,
and what originally was so original, so glorious
may now actually be obsolescent

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