John Frum Wasting Subtle Body
This is not your voice
This is not your breath
It is not the consequence of something heaven sent
The tower that begs ascending
With polished steps reflecting failure
Grasping at destinies laid before
A fall from such heights would break any beast
Having felt the lurching rhythm of the earth
Vetted against the beating of the heart
With the sun and moon's attraction
Measured against a clawing hand in the longing dark
Without, within
Not without temptation
The pretension of being enraptured with a concept
While being lost in a completionist's reverie
Without the problems of inherent obsolescence
Waxing
Waning
Dissolving
Draining
Is this the lauded humility?