What Lies Beneath? Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

From pulp to palpitation cycles spin.
Some trace a line or two, leaves from life's tree
imprint upon collective memory:
the music of the spheres, a melody
transcending time itself and its oubli,
provide emotions and tonality
which, although evanescent, all would win,
to find oasis, serendipity,
not shallow shadow where humanity
wilts mid drab desert of incessant din:
pollution, omnipresent cacophony.

The flotsam of time's bark one need not pin
down too precisely. Much dexterity
excludes from fields of vision feelings free
which life enrich with spice we sense, not see,
like perfume on the winds of change to key
ambiance of death or dance, chance we
must find to take, create to breathe, as in
a trance we dream we age by Fate's decree,
or else each drowns in ephemerity.
Page turns before most even may begin
to taste their innate birthright: harmony.

Page turns before most balance yang and yin,
hungry hang heads in fear, both equally
protest: vain light, night pain's eternity.
Between expectancy, acceptancy,
expediency defines the term 'to be'
against a background continuity
where change, to which when young most felt akin,
turns traitor, turns on former guarantee.
Flesh compromises fresh integrity,
abased by an unbottled Janus g[r]in
before whose spite might fortitude must flee.
Receding hairlines split hairs, bare their sin,
then turn a blind eye to true talents, fee
pay to phantom fear flocks, [b]lock latent life within.

Few understand what lies beneath life's skin,
can cause, effect, decode with probity,
can probe, decipher mo[ve]ment's mystery,
can step by step retrace through history
their story sense endowed. Most men agree
to hide behind their own effrontery
rather than face their 'present' destiny
whose cards tomorrow's possibility
could for today's success deal seamlessly.
Few understand to start is to begin
to undermine all false security.