You know
I drag this brush
To fill each verse
And as I trail off the tip
That looming wondering
Comes over me

It’s asking:
‘This is it?
Where’s the pain? The agony?
Don’t you want to be great?
What use is your fun in this place?’

And almost, just nearly
I let its words sink me

But as a riposte, I ask:
‘And why’s that?
Is my fun not enough?
What’s wrong with my play?
Are these lines really greater
When laden with pain?
Can’t the pleasure-toned message
No matter how fluid
Can’t it too give meaning
The same way a twelve-tome agony
Made of hollow bricks, thin lines
Can direct the mind?
Can’t a meagre phrase
Delight the heart?
Even if there is no great exaltation
Even if I do not splatter disemboweled
Upon crafting each song
Doesn’t the mere mention of melody
Bring great charm?
And isn’t it just that
You shackled critic,
Bringing your own shackles,
Isn’t it just that
For which great pain
Surmounts every harm?’

But truly, either way
The wondering does not go.
It might not for some time.
So I turn from it
Singing my song
And although it’s not always
That I find myself cheerily-pricked
Or happily occluded from all else
By a few simple words
And I still return to a silence
Much like that of the wondering,
At least it’s not the same still
Clicking of septic sleep
As I’ve collected of old

But rather the quiet that comes
When a languid flower brushes a bee
Somewhere in the wind.

13.XI.24