Idle Thoughts

What? Who Said That?

Consider this a tribute offered,
 Though to whom it may be proffered,
 Will remain a stubborn mystery.
The words within are secondary,
 To whatever arbitrary,
 Rules it follows, and its history.
Through coffers of antiquity,
 And halls of treasur-ed beauty,
 Even that remaining is a memory,
 Cunning and exemplary,
 In spite of tangled webs and grasping claws,
 (the march of time and lack of clarity).
And so to you and you, and you,
 I submit, without a clue,
 What it is that you might do,
 With this information once obtained.
Without regard for structure sacred,
 Whether upheld or negated,
 Nothing new under the sun will grow.
No dance or song or art could flourish,
 Be it delicate or boorish,
 With form and function standing uncombined,
 No methods the past refined,
 What has it to teach, or share, or show?
But alas, to be obsessed,
 With inner voice subsumed, suppressed,
 Chains of rules must necessarily,
 Be broken, and the spirit freed,
 Through emergence, vis a vis,
 A creative emergency.
So in this final, last refrain,
 (beware of a distracted brain)
 Gratitude is hereby owed to thee,
 For working through a difficult,
 Inconsequential (veritable catapult),
 That when considered fully,
 Is ultimately really much too long.