(a continuation/re-thinking/new chapter of this piece, from a little while ago)
Morbidity in a New Forest
What are these things that we go to and get away from,
these masses of matter that we shun, shy away from
and then are drawn inevitably back towards—
or if not inevitably then more often than not
more strongly towards than away from so that
we are always having this going—
this coming and going, this to-ing and fro-ing—
these lines and circles in the forest where
even chaos is a kind of color, a kinder order
than we are used to, than we deserve,—
if we can be said to deserve anything at all—
a kind of overlay on these things that
defy this definition, all these definitions
since nature abhors lines and circles as much
as vacuums and yet of what is this universe
mostly made except the stuff of which it
isn’t?
...keepin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...
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“…these lines and circles in the forest where
even chaos is a kind of color, a kinder order
than we are used to, than we deserve,—
if we can be said to deserve anything at all—”
We do not deserve poetry so great as this. I think you have tapped into the voice of the universe and are delivering all its great truths to mankind.
Ok. I take it back. You just topped yourself in the compliment-giving category.
(*blush*)