Why Is It?
by Odin Roark

Why is it
the artist remains invisible to those with no preference?

Are the mirrors not reflective
of that which passes before them?

And is there not a virtual vortex of creative energy
abounding ceaselessly before all such reflective surfaces?

Why is it
that consciousness remains asleep in those of pedestrian desire?

Is not the polished silver for destiny's feast but refractive reminders
available to all who will but remove the shades of fear
and look beyond the mirrors of their self-centered selves?

Why is it
gluttonous appetites of complacency’s empty nourishment
always create imperfect mirrors for the colorless ethereal bliss of ignorance?

Why is it
palates of taste are void of the desire to understand the palette of life,
where brush strokes of nature’s endless rainbow exist but to bathe and feed
the starvation of purposeless minds once born of endless imagination?

Why is it
the heart must languish in the mindless exile of blindness?

Why is it?

Today’s newborns may never know.