Scupper the limits of fiction while ye may;
draw down the lines of first offense and wear
them like the amulets of bone your gram
ten generations back concealed. To stay
where repetition lies for fear you’ll scare
the truth away is poison by the dram.
We’ve all the cup of mortal brew agreed
to drink; the scratching at the tavern door
has sobered some and others turned to drone.
Only a few the rattle and the seed
befriend, and if you be among the four
or five, let freshness be your whetting stone.
Outrun with joy the silence and faint praise,
for nothing less pre-paves the world stage.
© Elaine Stirling, 2014