Chrysalis

Is this catalysis or paralysis?
The artist silently supplicates to powers unknown,
Another blank space on an empty page,
An interminable blip upon shifting canvas,
Embroidery curling at the seams.

Is this absolution or dissolution?
The seamstress spins the tapestry,
Those endless waves of cosmic seas,
Bleeding midnight through distant sands
Where April glow crystallizes in embers past.

Is this new sight or a trick of the light?
What a feeble mind could envision,
A calendar of smoke and mirrors,
Each eternity etched in granite,
That crumbles as it assembles.

Is this the world or another sword?
Nine crows soar against the blush of open sky,
As the farmer ruminates upon his finitude,
And the soldier achieves his totality,
Suspended in vitro, desiccated in vivo.

Those lives of quiet desperation sing,
The basso upon which symphonies exult.

Yet the tree in the forest makes no sound.