Poetry


 

 

Sole Grace

Perhaps the solitary grace,
the only glory left on this earth,
is to belay the Lie: to create
one's own meaning in the here and now.
To walk, in perverse integrity, a dissembling path
through the world, noble by comparison
where there is no comparison.
To laugh in the face of the Cosmic Joke;
to choose to act as if it mattered
how one might choose.
To refrain from that bitter irony
which enshrouds the living dead,
cold as stone in winter.
To avoid the narrowing impulse,
the squeezing-in of heart
enduring more than any heart
ought to be asked to bear.
Genteel nobility may be the sole revenge left
toward the indifference of a creation
of such inconceivable and inscrutable malice,
in a world where gross insanity reigns rampant.
To mindfully refuse to be overcome by struggle,
to give no energy to futile contention of blaming tongue,
nor succumb to the sleep of forgetfulness—yet be
led not into the temptation
of living in order to earn the comforting approval
of either a good or a jealous god—
and never, never to feel sorry for oneself. Rather,
to live in a passionate pursuit of the deep Questions;
to value vivid experience of Life As It Is; to pleasure
in the Fullness of the very Dance Itself.
To define oneself by whatever one is awake to,
and, thereby, to belie the Lie: to transcend.

~Anne S. Perrah

 

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