Wisdom, comes not to those who play,
by Michael Walkerjohn
what comes is neither fun nor gain;
circumstance curves both sight and mind,
against the soul and living's grains;
happiness twined, life's best and worst,
combined of choice around fate's chain;
happenstance, every players perch,
by words grip, a chance of bond remains.
Asleep we are of future's scorn,
taught to bleed, and not to flower;
against the burn of thoughts surround,
life's motions, grief soon devours;
currents spill, the wastrels cursing,
upon this day, is chance proved dour;
pull, self cries to ear now deafened,
by crowds slight, and realized succour.
Trolling stilled, by played water's deep,
expressions keep its secret's sweet;
social norm is a cautious no,
that taste, implies a life's defeat;
infertile proves time's passion games,
one rite, confounds the sharpest sneak;
source profanes compassion's bless,
the well, sustains what heartache eats.
Hatreds test, crude and fine embraced,
spoken lines, lies, and truths induced;
stand tall as sage, in speakers roles,
beneath sins, shadowed author Proust;
questioned swank, act on stage time lost,
etymons ruse, Pindar's' mime Faust;
genre forfeit, guile rules the least,
thought favors one, that Muse traduce.
Apprise one's worth, within life's troupe,
valued parts, the heart, mind, and soul;
Psyche's tasks, unique of mortals rare,
transform away, what life assails;
wakeless and tireless, this growth bares,
the rose quartz moon, three stars surreal;
searching truth's eye, each mind swore,
from words, emerged Atman's slayer.
Poetic grace, escapes the few,
who choose the form, over words fun;
verse to traps minds, when stern the view,
that form, not jest, is construct's feign;
truth filled lines taunt, an authors poise,
affects the foolish, harping pawn;
enigma or smegma, gifts urbane,
script composed, my detractors fawn.