Friday, November 23, 2012

original atonement

The sincerest of apologies
takes the form of genius.
Or distance void of caustic
depths. This has been the doctrine
I have committed to: Every strike
of error is certain, spot on,
and denies excuses one must fear
becoming the child who grew up deaf
because no one listened to him,
listened to the truth he believes.
Yet man is forever in service
to inconsistencies. For each day
there is so much to relearn,
to untangle what is once wrought
with conviction. The colorblind,
for one, can tell that this orange
has never been that orange until later.
Always, there will be that something
or someone that brings grief in poetry.
But let the dark define the splendor
of things. Everyone must be hard
to love. Otherwise, an orange
from the market is all we need.

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