What is the cost of something beautiful,
Something divine,
Something immutable?
Paid in hours of arduous toil,
Paid in ransom,
In midnight oil.
Is there tithing enough to see
Pulchritude manifest itself so free
As starlight glinting across the sea,
Or in the candor of unending verse,
Over the massive white flowering trees,
Those triumphs worth ever more than a purse.
Droughts of wit confined within pages
All to give thought to those now wistful sages,
And how they will ponder those witty muses
To drink up the knowledge and dispel it for uses.
To create, to think, to bring unto,
Is to give shape to a formless slew
Of injustices and injuries and lacking of heart,
Of loveless chaos in a land without chart.
To wait out and sit,
Just weather the whether
And stay calm through maybe
Is to hold tight your tether.
The yeah or naught
Is meddled around
And waded into to
Certainty profound.
Then that dawning sun dons
Its absolution to you,
Sowing such now and
Sewing that knowing in its lieu.
Constructing verse is like a puzzle,
Fitting together words that rhyme,
Mixing up and seasoning stew
As if out of tumultuous chyme
Constructing verse is like cooking,
Heating together words that rhyme,
Mixing up and seasoning stew
As if out of tumultuous chyme
Constructing verse is like a puzzle,
Fitting together words that rhyme,
Mixing around the jagged edges,
Relentlessly solving outside of time.
