The din

The unexpected presence of a new
voice rose through his darkened din;
it is crystalline and promising,
frightening and unobtainable

Wayward imagination will choose its
usual ruse ere he’s disabused; one for
which he unerringly falls, evidenced
by his halls of fancied fallacies

Is that simple gullibility or blind
intractability? Is it desperate
esperance or innate insanity? Muses
he, as if they were different animals

An eximius cynosure who fearlessly
holds the gaze of his inward eye,
a new rose voicing its presence, in
a proem of potential affinity

He can envisage moving a mountain
with a concinnity of extempore,
then applies the verse to her soul,
though nary a chance she’ll be moved

She only scratches the surface of
his brainpan, when the curiosity
is relegated to marginalia, her gaze
drawn away by more talented artists

Abrupt experrection from reverie,
when the din again darkens a rose,
he internally eternizes the memory,
in his oft visited garden of prose

art: dead roses by George Muscalu