Open Source Poem IV

If every moment has a continued existence in the mind,
isn’t it kind to think that the medium,here before you,
his handlebar moustache marking him out as eccentric,
the tweed trousers a mistake for his years, only forty,
stands some suspect chance, admittedly, of revealing
to you, the seeker, some hint, a shadow of her heart?
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To even have a shadow of a heart, one must first have had a heart,
Admitted the senses, the feelings of humanity to oneself,
Taken a part in that human game known as life, confessed their mortality.
How could I then be known to anyone else? How could he know me?
For him to truly know me, I would have to have knowledge of myself
And that mystery of self is hazier still to me than to he.
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But that mystery is the reason, for being here
To try and understand, to learn which path to take
Entrusting ones life to the ethereal plane and its whims
Or is it to a showman, a flim-flam, a fake?
Taking your inner demons and twisting your soul for profit
Who is the eccentric now?
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Rilke says, “Every angel is terrible.” He means, Beauty
burns us down. Consider dusk. What does it mean?
Every day cows return to the barn. James Wright says,
“I have wasted my life.” Anyone could say everything
and not live up to that. Cows in barn. Angels asleep.
The medium before you. Consider the dusk.


Glenn has written stanza five.

Check out his use of "veal."