SONNET 94
"...They evoke mystery and, indeed, when one sees one of my pictures, one asks oneself this simple question: 'what does it mean?' It doesn't mean anything, because mystery means nothing either; it is unknowable."
~ Rene Magritte, about 'The Lovers II'
Our flowing epoch's a virtuoso, tangled;
Sometimes jaded, clear in its fever wrapped opaque,
Come solidly, o burgundy of days mangled
By man only in search of Paradise! some pique,
Those sentinels made marvel of the world at late,
Like lemonade, sour and sweet, come, drive pass with me;
So when troubles come the vermillion shadows wreak --
I'm your taxi driver, sir, here through syzygy.
Celestial reigns watched overthrown by liturgy;
Karaokes of the past verbatim present,
There's very few, real mystery, only intrigue.
Lonely stools profound in deep catch us as nascent,
Catching plainly dusk planet dust retreat my eyes,
Abound thrusts our boards we play through deep, winding sighs.
