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Show me firewood from a log that cannot be hewn.
Show me benefit in the impossible.
 
I don't spit in the eye art's noble prince,
but if it feathers your critical life's hat, sew
a badge of southward thumbs across my words,
entomb yourself in crypts of stylemasters.
 
The incomprehensible can be colourful,
thrown for love at local jams or festivals,
a sea of perplexed crystals blankly blink.
If you don't get me, would you listen keener?
Or would you rather spare a moment
for my burden, this brick, my brick,
one usual word by one everyday idea,
to the building site of time's history tower?
 
I surrender everything to time,
the revealer, the healer and the judge.
 
When she sits in judgment against me,
would she blame me for walking light,
my notes unburied in concrete slabs?
 
Today, I indulge myself a delusion; in time's
harvest eve I shall reap kindness and healing,
if she makes just one of my bricks luminous
beacon of eternal truth.
 
I prostrate before truth,
the liberator, the jailer, and the hangman.
 
May truth be told when my days stop breathing.
If it proves my one thought, belief, or fear
made life better for somebody, or somebody
better for life, because I was not lost in
a firework of fancy and unfathomable clues,
that will be my crown of vindication.