He believed, then doubted, then died it
Creativity was his door to become more
Poetry and prose were the tears that he cried,
and he toiled with the question:
What was it all for?
Doubt was the dust
infiltrating even his purest intention
Now he lies spent like rain in the grass,
tears on a tissue, lipstick on a glass
Not even the universe affords him attention
He always believed too much,
and proof was never important as such
If he liked it, he deemed it to be true,
even if experts were cleverer and knew
His world, perhaps, was slightly askew
Belief was like a train:
Up front the idea, creditability and fame
…so far so good
Followed by wagons of responsibilities,
too many to name
…that was the drudge
Suddenly a yardstick emerged
with which he was judged (his ideas)
Yes, he believed a lot
But, certainly didn’t want to be put on the spot
for that which he called ‘the smoke from his pot’
It wasn’t religion or philosophy or such,
they were ideas,
life’s attempts at art with a smudge
Believing was more like following a trail
Not weighing each thought or step on a scale
T'was an indication of an approximate direction,
and was prone to frequent correction
Believing and doubting were forever composing,
One minute blissfully flying over harmonies crest,
euphorically losing control in the zest
and then,
crashing into the trough of Wagner’s gloomiest best
He was cog and engine in a perpetually opposing quest
Shattered belief, triumphant doubt,
sometimes one or the other acted out
A farmer of conflict, a dreamer of hope,
ever the next wave of life should puzzle it out
Liberally sown by doubt the seeds of conflict abound
That’s why believing in dreams is so very allowed
But,
dreams are also the food
which conflict gobbles to sprout
and once it has grown
it smothers the dreams
so they lose the belief in their own
If life was nurtured by believing in dreams,
no matter how irrational they seemed
and doubt destroys them with such might
undoubdetly, he thought, he had just died
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Wow! Brilliant.
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