This is not a treatise on beauty,
soured as it is these days
by the splatter of bitter lemons,
and Utopia can only be found
at the end of gravity’s rainbow
or perhaps between the light in August
and the shadow of the wind.
Now we seek our lost illusions
in pictures at an exhibition
or in the lies of silence;
these last orders from the petty demon
belong to a dark star safari,
a revolt in the desert
delivered by warlords and holy men.
But tomorrow, we will hear the music of change
already I see the promise of the nice and the good;
such a long journey from here to there
and we are slow learners –
sometimes it seems like a wild sheep chase –
but we will come upon the City of Djinns
though it may take one hundred years of solitude
and a hero with a thousand faces.
And when we reach the shore
we will extend not a mere olive branch,
but an olive tree
and on the road, we will learn
A “book spine” poem for NaPoWriMo day 10.