Poets tire of endless impositions
which, though not enforced upon us,
remind us yet of lifelong treks
outside ourselves, while digging thus
a graven willingness to tolerate
the possibility of writing something on the minds
of younger people, so soon grown to tend bitter,
sardonic if essentially kindly
human egos. Trodden down by fear
of painful endings in foreign places,
we spot the signs of years expended:
a flabby bum, an incapacity to tie one's laces.
The loved ones begin their journeys, flourishes
of public semi-sincerity easing others' consciences;
why could I not look his photo in the eyes?
I am to be despised for shyness – which nourishes
the unspeakable compensations of art well executed,
in recognition of a grammar school education
and the application of the force of reason.
As the future approaches, so too the freedom of Nirvana.