SONNET 122
I welcome thee, you world where nothing is a given,
Not sight nor sound nor whispers nor fears nor feeling.
Purpose is mandate; living's, therefore, an option;
Weakened recall's contemptibly unredeeming.
But, why, art's my harlotry mundane a release
To pedantic routines our foregoing beauty --
May a world be lived where mediocrity is
Not av'rage nor av'rage be mediocrity;
Cleverness and memory frosted secular
Trims kinder souls Socratic, dazéd liminal
Compartmentalized purpose this Art of Life are
Since practicality is most impersonal. --
Be it law, medicine, or a teacher's dusting,
A wisdom's clear but clear not from duty's clearing.
