By Andrew Moravick
Long enough have I tread this torrent,
Long enough have I fought this current,
Foolishly pined to float above convention,
Through feats, words, or some sort of invention.
Yet what am I in all and all,
Never to rise but bound to fall.
My arms grow tired and breath grows short,
Every effort I make the sea will thwart.
Should I exhale for one last time,
And descend into the suffocating brine?
Should I accept my future and take my place,
Settle for a walk when longing to race?
Long dead are the days of valued verse.
Long gone are lines of pith and terse.
Poets past what would you say,
If you saw the effects of ignorance today?
Imagination replaced by a screen,
Unheard are those who dream.
The wonders of each day have become so trivial,
Mysteries, majesties, mysticisms, none left to reveal.
Shakespeare today where would you be,
Silent, unheard, undistinguished by the SAT?
Blake, what visions would you put down on page,
That no one has seen in this cheap visionless age?
Emerson how could you possibly transcend,
When there are too many voices for the message you send?
Frost how now could you walk the path less taken,
With all roads explored, yet all left vacant?
How can I stand with all you my friends,
You who are gods made by nothing but pens?
Your words cemented on page as in stone,
Mine written on water never to be known.
Give me your voices o gods of the page,
Give me your powers to be heard in this age.
For my voice is lost, drown by my time,
Let the people hear yours if unmoved my mine.
Deeper down I continue to sink,
Starving for air, unable to think.
My mind now shrieks from insufferable pain,
Assaulted by a sea of thoughts so common and plain.
My body still lives while my soul nears death,
Thoughts of my friends my one lasting breath.
In your words my last comfort I see,
Yet if all you could triumph than why not me?
With this pen I can save myself from this mediocrity.
The waters drop back and high do I rise,
No longer a gill-less fish am I,
But a mighty eagle, lord of the skies.
Yet in eternal debt to you gods who bid me fly.
I cry out in joy with my pen,
The voice of the bard to be heard once again.
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