Words and the Revenge of Meaning….

Philosophers have their version of song.

They sing the romances of “meaning” and “I,”

and all the while captive in blood,

and held to the fire of words.

The “self” becomes a monument true,

the edifice of persona, but ravaged by day

in the troubles of time and the dangers of dream,

where words are like burials

and “truths” like grave diggers.

Where there is a word, there springs new hope,

that today’s new meaning is promising truth,

and yet the heart beats, the night falls,

and lights once seen are extinguished there,

in the midst of darkness where words don’t suffice,

and sleep is troubled by a dictionary of lies.

Sleep well, philosopher dear,

catch what you can of the passing forms,

that remark on “truth” and the “infinite” space

your mind can encompass,

then wake to the day, bright or dull,

that informs you of nothing,

save what you can feel.

But you will awake, refreshed by some myth,

that wraps you in syntax, emboldens your speech,

and out of your mouth new phrases appear,

those sanctions of meaning you hold so dear,

but sunlight and movement deranges your plan,

the facts of just living are laid at your feet,

and confusion reigns, you stumble and fall,

and in your confusion you sacrifice all.

The eggs and the bacon are sizzling there,

and the imperatives of hunger seep into your mind,

and all else, no matter how brilliant and clear,

recedes into nothing – and nothing you find.