Phyrin Blanks found his voice yesterday
(finally)
Heaped under a pile
Of myth and allegory
At least he thought he found it
Never can be too sure
The world might say,
"It sounds fake to us."
Anyway,
How many more times can I lose this key?
Thought Phyrin,
while behind him, beyond
The pine and thistlestraw berm
That couched in his backyard
The long highway
rumbled and hissed
Same as yesterday,
And the day before,
and you get the picture;
Phyrin did. He took a pull
of Paisano
and mused:
The need to be technical,
he said to himself,
Technical expertise,
yeah,
so that's it
You've got to be so technical
if you want to maintain that easy inward way
Your own counsel kept,
not quite a secret,
Just invisibly trying to admit that
further reality
blue and silver
gold and red
aurally
arranged and fed
you gotta Let It In
to arrive at that weirdly
elusive yet no longer
deferred vista
That the all the world's
ambivaloids
but also the good folks at home
Just aint seen.
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