Untitled #02

the age-old avant-garde of ivy-veiled granite

whose unashamedly unforgiving facades

conceal women and men who have dreamt

their names writ in ink unfading

ivory tower teachers scratch their lectures

into tablets carried down the steps of babel

but fantasies forged of vanities crumble

and ivy wilts like the seed of rocky soil

everything is utterly meaningless

like pitch black rainbows at midnight

for fixed in sorrow are beautiful things

that turn the soul to other than light

flee the lesser degree of diploma

and cast aside the shackles of success

for these bloom a false freedom

in which triumph tramples truth

burn the books and banish the bigots

this is simple and sound and sacred

it is the boon of the thorn in your side

for power is made perfect in weakness

a good dream does not smother wildfires

it lets burn the clapping douglas and tells the tree's tale

it holds the alabaster ash and feels its grey memories

it takes what is and draws out delight

for mountains sing with hark and hallelujah

while birds of the sky feed without planting

and all the trees and lilies of the field

clap their hands in the fullness of life