I've been appointed to write the great American novel:Disappointment
Am I right that it has ceased to be novel?
Anointed to pen the story of the anti-hero
A tale pointed against dear ol' hope
Intent to kick out the chair before untying the rope
The main character is such
A brainy error-driven klutz
Who, for all his prophecy and prose
Will never see his progeny exposed
To the masses and fact is
He lies it like this
His passion to describe
Why it is why it is...
Why he can write of beauty
Why he can do so with duty divine
Why these seems so close
not to him but for the most part, humanity
So as not to appeal to his own vanity
He does an uncanny job to keep his child to himself
Swaddling on the shelf a tattered notebook
Full of what matters and what he hopes look like truth
He pulls Saturn to Earth and back to say sooth he has lacked
He's a happy man in solitary confinement
Like his pages, locked in a prison of refinement
In time it shall not be such and written works of sage
will be forced outside his clutch and transmission left, in tatters
A shadow of the innocence that matters.
Black petals rose over time to hit the gas
Compelled by the feeling of going nowhere fast
Consequently, he will gently push upon himself
to remove his mentally conceived child from the shelf
Not too ready, but he'd like someone to understand
To have something to hold onto besides the pen in hand
One thing to hold onto might be his muse
There's ever so small a spark between them
But it's never lit the fuse
Until he hit the gas and set it loose
With a flash
Torridly they tore orally through all his walls
Not sordidly, but orderly with an awl
Since his conception's inception, he's not felt much at all
but this so nascent and so real
When it comes to this perfection, his participation is surreal
For real, his an intimation of a projection, hums it then
She too unguarded and true
Whatever 'twas she'd do
they'd do it like artist
with the wisdom of Athena
and the fury of Ares
Intently she kissed him
And so purely ensnared these disciples of Eros
Rare these moments that the heart is where the poem is.
His writing took a new character
Characterized by a smile
The size of 3 mile island
and just as radiant
Covering the gradients
one radian around
Circumscribed all of pi from God
in chalkdust on the ground
They wed and led a felicitous life
Perfect husband, perfect wife
L o v e ever waxing
L i f e never taxing
Lasts one very extraordinary
long interminable fathomless eon
Rather it continues without end in sight
Still it sits on the Occidental
but the differential lies on the clock
At least a moment away
the peace that love meant happiness would stay
In many moons
They met their doom at the same time
Simultaneously, simulacrum of harmony of rhyme
In memoriam, Cupid weeping and leaking saline.
The disappointment, you ask?
(No matter the gravity of task
In labours of love
Games rules don't bend)
Answer: That every story has to end
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