Susurrations of wonder beckon the poetic heart to make its dwelling extraordinary

    Lacking promenade in savage writhe, muse’s dance it remains

The scoffing rejoinder of the immature cries ‘Ne’er such a thing!’

    ‘Intimate illusions are they, ignis fatuus in all manner of fool’s folly!’

Yet this whisper vexes us with its duplicitous offense

    Its absurdity she bears schism, mocking our surety, erasing the proud

One of Truth, One of Myopics, both stumbling stones

    Betrayed each by canard of pompous might, or adornment of elite proxy

Nonetheless its matron cries birth screams of an unknown pang, immune to excuse

    Siren’s Song of hydrogen beckoning in the vast darkness; bride of all that we are to be and become: ‘Find me, young mind; even so, …find me’

Trust not simply your own eyes, should they gaze upon a tree for such a time that they can now see nothing else

    Smile warmly and step passed those drunk off the fruit of its intoxication

It is the heeding of the call, the humility of seeking without fear

    Only it is wonder born of such deliberate paradox and our will to tilt lances

…which proves we are