To paraphrase Faulkner, whom I have barely read, do not be a writer, but instead be writing.
Down crumbles the world
We now carry an inner heaviness,
interpolation of dimensions, spheres.
Vague maps, illusory systems caress
our already dilapidated ears.
The dumb and clumsy sense is led astray
by powers way beyond our rustic eyes.
And on we float, so lifeless, we obey.
From vast cold planes and peaks echo our cries.
And saviors shine through mist. All that’s amiss,
transformed by optics, under filters passed.
We see not this our world for what it is;
instead, we feel that gold must be amassed.
Down crumbles the world under this, our whim.
Our wishes thus break down and do grow dim.
© 2022 David Rosales