The Eye of the Storm
by Michael Doyle
To find the eye of the passing storm in life's wilderness
Is to find quiet hope in the chaos approached in the stillness
Where the arts find our attention despite all life's distractions
The place where somehow the world's duality finds its attraction
An artist captures these true impressions passed through intuition
Articulating seeds that blossomed once to form the institutions
By which we came to form the threads of civilization's tapestry
Spoken boldly at times, other times softly, always in mystery
Character has died as a focal point in literature's priority
Without so much as a burial offered or given any such dignity
Classic constructs are seen as obsolete mummies playing dead
As the artist seeks his soul over the technicalities of the head
The truth of source is the trouble of the complexity of the mind
However cruel or unkind, it's a question of what is more blind
To take out some of the unfulfilling notions or to leave it in
Either seems to be a missed point that amounts to the graver sin
That is to say, which is worse or more perverse, to stop thinking
Or stare at the whiteness of unfilled page, staring and unblinking
Hoping that the right words might yet form and find the growing
Needed to reach the point where truth finally exceeds knowing
Of respectable leaders of intellect's community laying down law
As if they are the Jedi masters past the point of knowing all
The all that is needed and heeded for all the art that is literary
While the reader intuitively knows the truth pleads the contrary
Warning signs of the pseudo-intellectuals can be found in tyranny
Cancelling and conforming silence where thought becomes villainy
If not approved by those who stopped thinking too long ago
To remember, truth must always be sought after by a seeker's soul
(c) September 9, 2023 Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved
Politically Incorrect Revisited