Once we thought there were mighty giants
and our angels gave thought that we were.
Turned a quarter to the rising, a humdrum,
turned cheap our daily meat, a noisy tedium,
never meaning more than a cold oil sandwich,
or a daily sinecure of some beggars crumbs.
But that was what we told ourselves soto voce,
shamed by the sun that was seen but narrowly
on a thin line, dividing world from nothing.
The low clouds hid the heads of mighty giants,
the sweet songs of heralded angels so clear
that our thoughts would grow as dazzling trees.
What if words, nailed to frames, built as planks
spired to the sky as nerve-fired wispy thoughts?
Their leaves a cursive binding the ends of words
to the roots of the world and beginning of ages.
What we told ourselves were the cumbersome things
bound to the earth and rooted in our very flesh.
What we need is to feel whole. This worded flesh,
a synergy of words feeding niggling self-importance.
In this end is vanity. Hollow with desperate need.
A personal glory seen thinly in dawn with the words
like bright birds or morning stars among the clouds.
Dawn will come, for this is what we told ourselves.
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Ron