you never know if the moonlit path
you think you’re traveling will lead you anywhere.
You are dazed in pursuit of a flame
of desire unheeded or forcefully dulled,
and destination is forever hidden under heaps of garbage.
Maybe we are never sane in life and
never virtuous too,
May be it’s all an insincere battered act
we put on to close the chamber that lead
us to air and water and laughter.
Maybe all we aim is an arranged communiqué
with the citadel of philosophy,
and knowledge of that dead art of pontificating
practiced by grotesque agelasts long departed.
Enclosed in the cloistered shyness of virtues
lost and never to be regained is the unconditional,
unenclosed sea of mortal wishes.
The heaving waves hammering on dust and sand
act as impediment to my pursuit of moral cries
for nonviolence and sleepy righteousness,
but like a king’s fool aiming at a jest I it can never perfect,
I know the ideal is inaccurate,
that virtue is a slow-dead comic art that never entertains.