The Poet's Apologia
The world out there sometimes seems A vast colony of limbless leprous Scavengers, incanters of reckless Liturgies, elephants blinded by An endless quest for meaning. I cannot give them alms in any coin They might spend among themselves: My work is the dreaming of words To melodies heard in vaulted silences Where images and echoes never die; A ritual sacrifice of sensibility To flow and eddy; the sound of A syllabary forged in the liver Of some god more favored than clawed By eagles.
- David W. Mitchell
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