There are games upon games that have been played through the eons. Today, I find just one of them. There is implied interplay between the plucking of a grape, and the plucking of a mysterious stringed instrument. I ask the readers: which was plucked for you, or for a friend you might think of?
Life has become a game,
where every opportunity is like a grape,
ripe, unripe, or perfectly-found.
Other times, there is something
clean as a string,
ready to be plucked:
all to play One Note
that The Near can Hear.
Here is a pluck:
It is in the histories of the lost
that are some forgotten memories found,
for the lost see themselves not,
aware not of who, what, or where.
Yes, the answers to their journey they do keep,
but more like a safeman:
without knowing within,
It is here than an old picture
finds itself more complete.
For ignorance is imagination
if that safeman can ever believe.