Poetry

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It is hard for one,
To kick against the goads,
Plainly peculiar,
Somehow or rather;

Upon broaching,
The statement of being;
May it thus be Wisdom?
Arrayed in her harlequin jumpsuit?

Laughable,
So agrees the Majority;
Remarkably still,
She is elected by the few;

About the muted handful,
Of Momentum's Lovechilde;
Granted for,
A mere glance per Age;

She hast halted all;
Every soul e'er designed;
At all crossroads,
Even deadends;

On countless Chimes!
O' irony! Cease thy chants!
A deranged scarcity,
Are one with Her;

Contrary to the entirety;
Of Civilization, so to speak,
Are rather relatively,
Contemptuous of her;

' Wilt thou not eye thineself?'
Wisdom softly sings;
Oft' times with a rod or two,
Requests of us,
With questionable Love;

So much so,
That I know naught,
From whence,
'Twas first conceived!

Dreadfully tangible,
A statement decreed
To a divine extent,
'Tis grasping for the wind;

Even so, for a mule,
To envisage Wisdom!
Mightily pathetic a dream,
O' silly Wisdom!

Whence, hast carnal blood,
Doused with live sagacity,
Been ever borne,
Unto our rural planetarium?

Solely one, true wise,
Insightfully spotless,
Hence 'tis we that declared,
He be a myth akin to Wisdom!

For where filthy deeds are,
Being fed as a mother's bosom milk,
A household of merry-making,
Still breathes a House of Mirth!

Thou now deny,
Without first supposing,
All flesh, within stale unison,
Under this same ol' roof;

Regardless alike,
Faith and Unfaith,
Even them whom profess,
The extant spotless Lamb!

Too weary,
A thought;
Too weary,
A reality besought;

An invitation to mourning?
To the House of Scorn!
O' whom shall attend?
To the House of Mourning?

Certainly not we!
Not one of the House of Mirth!
For all whom weep and wail,
Are wretched and deluded!

'Death be just ye ol' forty-winks!'
So says the Imp;
Ye ol' delight and Mate;
O' silly Wisdom! Hell be ye dream!

All past whom fondled Death,
They speak! Yea, cynnically fated!
Sound barriers, they shatter!
Still, dost ears of flesh test dreams?

Yet to descry,
O' House of Mirth,
Only them deranged and wretched,
Them alone, wise and deluded;

'Tis them, House of Mourning,
'Tis them, whom hast so learnt;
Discerning the Age,
Examining wholly per empathy;

Saith the Preacher,
For a time, and times, and half a time:
‘Vanity of vanities,
All is vanity;'

For the heart of the wise, singly,
Is in the House of Mourning;
But the heart of fools, being Myriads,
Is in the House of Mirth.

Schlemiel


Ecclesiastes 7:2
“Better to go to the house of mourning,
Than to the house of feasting,
For that is the end of all men;
And the living will take it to heart.”
" The Preacher

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