The fates, musing on their summit
cogitate toward an artistic tomorrow.
They cannot think like the Banshee
a songstress of grand renown
through all the high lands.
We pick our strengths from them,
giants of veracity and sloth.
We sing them praises as we weep
over children razed in solitude
and they respond without kind words
and continue to cut
golden and silver threads.
We cannot cultivate them
or rase ourselves up. They keep us down
thunderstruck before we reach
elevated awareness. As Sisyphus
our stupidity disallows us from dropping
the rock of creativity, of oneness
we wish to feel to all around us.
This mountain made by man is so steep
that standard bearers, editors to the populace
shun credos of innocence. We are guilty
of intellectual honesty, forbearing
our pursuits in spite of internal drives.
Over thinking paves the way to the devil's mouth
a hell so particular the pain becomes
an honor to sustain.
I don't think I like this title. Any better ideas?