Illusions

There is nothing original

nothing un-cut

no rough diamonds

just gatherings:

songs others have heard

places oft-visited

books re-read

leaves, grass and waterlilies  

tree lines and shade

sun drops and burns

immemorial hurts

and momentary grasps

common across continents

and centuries;

all things important 

have come to pass

all wisdom catalogued,

we just chance upon old stones

and cut old fruit

we delight as others have

weep over eternal verities

with tears thought to be virginal,

the metaphysical in cell and bone

prick the voodoo dolls 

of our sensibilities 

we dance and collapse: 

'I was the first'

or 'I will be the last'

and with such convictions 

we clothe the lie

and sometimes

with poetry

quietly dab our wounds.