I walk with my head in the exalted realm,
Yet my feet must suffer the filth of the earth,
What cruel trick of nature kindled my mind with cognition’s gleam,
And fettered it with feeble flesh that must huddle around a hearth!
No sinews of steel, am no roaring beast,
Only a spirit in throes of feral rage.
Man is condemned to partake of weakness’ feast,
Trapped in the knowledge of the inevitable, its invisible cage.
(I wrote this while listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, hence the title. My first attempt at the villanelle form of poetry.)
When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream,
Wakefulness I drown in reverie’s waters, let me float on this lost stream,
It almost is true, this world I see, almost a fantasy.
Beauty like a cliff’s edge, to stand and peer or to plunge into its teasing, tempting abyss?
In an endless pursuit of fleeting moments, in a vain grab at a passing moonbeam,
When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream.