Epiphany Poem by Kevin Maroney

Unknown,
he stands above it all,
yet still he can't help but stall,
each day's a ruse, medley farce,
from here to there, like darting larks.

Indeed, it's all a shallow game,
played for far between, yet hallowed fame,
recognition not worth the waste,
for so much soul poured into such worthless paste.

An image does one strive to keep,
much more present, for me to reap.
Yet all's none and fair in war,
who ever said it had to be so sore?
A sore on the world or in the self,
asks me my conniving elf,
to you from the world, you are far between,
don't try to salvage what's not in your glean.

It's never been, a short mirage,
a time bereft of naught but massage,
to muscles duressed and patience outworn,
of these few gleanings doth I now be shorn.

Scissors of light through dark,
plunge the world into colors stark,
obscure, oblique, all is hidden,
confused I wander, with foul mice ridden.

Where am I, this world strange,
no towing rope or familiar range?
What people here, these shadows and shapes,
such men I once viewed without jape.

What a wondrous laugh, does utter from me,
from me to you, you to thee.
Your soul, though worth it, laughs at me,
so away from you, no worthy.

Ignored and shoved into a box,
mind now ridden with maddening pox,
the only cure is not a sun,
but turn away from those who turned from my fun.

What's that I see, it's the light,
burning ever so melancholy bright,
shy away I try, I might,
and yet there's no bother, I must, at last, my sight...