I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
What are we, humans? Self-conscious, amnesiac Animals, dying
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
“You can make anything by writing.” --C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters, 1942 Can anyone be made by writing? If, simply by means of humble scribbling
Every age spawns its specific, new kind Of problematic character; we find No cybercriminals in Ancient Greece Nor will we fear a witch might curse our niece
The battle between right and left goes on Ideological tensions increase Partisan bickering will rage on Until our debates about freedom cease
Between those who can’t And those who can’t be bothered Lies the sad shadow
Reality is not a story But we read it, and write about it, and act and think and speak as if It were, and that is pure folly as metaphysics
As many beautiful spectacles exist as there are spectators But it does not follow that every spectacle is beautiful Consider a soiled diaper, or a rotting onion, or a fascist political rally
Often, you seem to be writing for me Bitter ethical pangs quickly ensue; The blank page is crowded; how can this be? I am but your instrument: it’s all you
The anticipation is exquisite So much is missing or broken or wrong When the deliverer pays a visit Everything will become bright and strong
As you read these lines Your mind is being altered By silent symbols
Alas, too many sources of delight are deleterious to one’s health Before sinking one’s teeth into some tender victual, one must be reminded
Given the status quo, that is, the existing state of things, or the way we are all spending Our brief lives at present
