Sunrises In the Dark

Poetry readers,
listeners,
and the curious.

Might it be
poets escape demands?
They Do
rather than
Be?

Is it not possible
dignity's survival depends
on being detached
from that which
wishes
to attach?

Could such inner freedom
liquefy shackles
of riches,
of fame,
of expectation?

And...

Is it possible
rewards reside
in dances with words,
while others labor language
to serve,
to validate,
and inure to attachment
to other controlling others?

Perhaps...

Spirits generous
remain
uncontainable,
like water running
around
and over
stones
and other
obstacles impotent
to imprisonment.

For some...

Aloneness
protects true peace,
the calm voice
whispering a language of fire
from a forever candle,
a flame impervious to storm,
its extinguish-proof seclusion secured.

Yet…

Humble we must be,
for we are but stand-ins
for sunrises in the dark,
we poets,
we purveyors of
obscurity's blissful density.