Poem: Amends – 05/04/21

It’s considered ludicrous, 
as this pencil draws as pen, 
impermanence detailing permanence, 
can history make amends? 

In truth, in part, 
will hope, will fresh knowledge renew?
In truth, in whole, 
intentions grown strength to strength 
and full. 

But, unmanageable, so it seems? 
By a world of common sense and 
split former seams,
will future tense stretch in excess, 
parading that which should shriek with joy, not distress?

I speak of stitches, 
popped at their entry points, 
I mention stitches, 
now being repaired thrice by thrice. 

I speak of strings ringing with vibrato, 
these fingers are tremulous, 
gently rolling, 
creating that beautiful musical sense
now and for all tomorrow’s calling.

But is there enough enveloping scope, 
in the melodies nightly hushed, 
in the tunes gently told,
because one could be argumentative 
and find insipid flaws 
in shattered rhapsodies already spoke.

One must be patient, 
and wonder not, or perhaps continue to dance, 
it’s dangerous around certain fires, 
but some flighty ladies love to linger and prance.