'Just The Lark On The Lake, Speaks The Obtuse Poet Of What Is' Poem by Micheal Valencia

“It’s undefined and grateful to be so;
It makes itself not try harder,
It makes itself unknown and unconcerned with work—
It's okay to be plain,
To be ordinary;
One may find it mundane,
But that gives it power.”
- The Poet of ‘What Is.’

The morning by the lakeside,
Air sweetly soft—
Perfect, delicate in touch.

The morning finds the larks about practicing
their art of countless generations’ age:
Melodious song—shrill ostensibly,
But containing a depth of such unbeknownst
sincerity.

To recite in such undifferentiating uniformity—
It's almost mesmerizing enough to jolt descriptive
verse form the deeps of an abstract poet’s mind:
To contain no expression needing to escape
the confined, inhibiting coverings of existence;

To be illustrated with such substantive beauty—
To not be the indigent abstraction of life's mystery or
of a day's routine, powerfully hungering for obscure,
dreamlike verse to give metaphysical meaning to
obtuse meaninglessness;
To not be desirous of poetic stability for life's cold,
realist sympathies:

Lord God,
To just be the wonderful larks' on a lake I've
visited for the weekend!