It's been a rainy/snowy/sleety day, the kind with grey skies and, for me anyways, the desperate need to write poetry.
It wasn't really until today that I realized how much I write: I write for my job, for school, and most importantly, for myself...
In his later work The Captain Is Out To Lunch And The Sailors Have Taken Over The Ship Charles Bukowski expressed his feelings about writing and said that he really didn't have a choice to write, it was almost like breathing to him, a mandatory function of living. Sometimes I feel that way. So, here's a poem, for better or worse.
Maybe Plato was wrong
He took his glasses off,
readily accepting the non clarity of the universe,
and I watched him,
as he took another sip of his glass of wine,
and spent the night hours
prophetically discussing the potentialities of the future
to the distant shadows across the room,
all of us, just blurs to him,
and yet he, so calm and content.
And I wondered, then,
whether or not blindness meant a lack of clairvoyance,
and whether or not senses made sense at all,
Descartes having written them off long ago,
and Tiresias having no need.
And I wondered, too,
why any of us ever bothered with glasses,
trying to fix the mistakes of our own fates,
and why acceptance was so very hard.