Poetry is a hoax; a parable in translucid form.  It is a stretch of words into rhythmic diffusions.  Maybe Yeats would one day have split an atom.  Such meanings are irrelevant but to the heart.  That perhaps is the problem.  We are never able to translate well our emotional syntax.  That just occurs with our grunting and groaning.  The use of language is expanding to levels of communication.  It’s pretty simplistic but the means of speaking become esoteric as the voices of song contrast with the voices of reason.  Battles and wars fought over little misunderstandings.  My misgivings are forgotten only by myself.  It seems eternal memory for the flaws.  The little words are juxtaposed to suggest a melody.  None is rising.  The feuds of families are now underway.  The anecdotes are alarming but treason needs no season.  The battling bulk ne’er more in the lucid translation of words and customs.  But poetry remains a hoax; a parable in translucid form.  It is no more capable of transcendence than an earthworm.

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