Seven

It’s all correct, and crisp, and keen and bright
A place of order, form, and right design.
A haven, in this world of dark, of light.
A Where to start a long and clean straight line.

It would be nice if all around we saw
The grace, decorum of the antique mind
Brought forward to the present as a law
Instead of our cacophonous and brutal bind.

It should not need to hearten me so much
To come across a little worth, among
The slush and drivel, dross and mulch
Which would be better formed of honest dung.

The game’s not up. Some children still can sing.
Go tell the falling leaves it’ll soon be spring.

There’s light and love and joy and freshness yet,
There’re those who have something to celebrate.
There can be times we hope we’ll not forget.
A helping hand is not always too late.

Up really high there’s still clear perfect blue.
Morning must dawn as long as there is night.
Without the old there’s nothing to renew.
Occasionally, it almost feels alright.

Altho I know that light needs dark to shine,
I don’t expect to tell what atoms mean.
The universe is fine without being mine.
The flowers of countless valleys grow unseen.

What is above subsists on what’s beneath.
The world is not entirely blasted heath.

The freedom that you seek is in the mean
Between opposing tensions in your soul.
Achieve the integration of the whole
And then you are, and not a might have been.

Remember that to live is to metabolise.
So don’t forget en route to the sublime
To check on your mouth-anus transit time
Look at the ground as well as at the skies

You’ve heard it all before? That’s fine.
Reiterated truths soon sound absurd.
To be blas; is not beatitude.
It’s just your glutted tongue can’t taste the wine.
One in a million hears the blatant word
Before it echoes into platitude.