9 Dec

by L. Stewart Marsden

Happen-chance, say you;

Falldee-roo, say I,
Poppycock and Hookums,
and all the Bally-hoos
I can muster
to countermand this cluster
of unbelieving fools!

You know not what you say,
You posture and you play
With hypotheses
That make me laugh
and wheeze
till on my knees I’m forced to fall
and wonder at the very gall
you’ve wretched from all your
semblances of knowing,
Growing from your molded minds.

Like day and night
and Summer, Winter
Spring and Fall and all the
many ordered acts
you count to be.

You look but do not see,
Listen, but you never hear
the truths whispered near to your ear,
and fear that if it’s not by chance
you will, perchance,
have to recant your
lodged belief in agony and grief.

But for now you remain,
however the same:
still clinging
still ringing
still singing


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