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Seven Years

David Sapp

Seven years might do it,
seven years of silence,
seven years at my age,
an uncharted significance.
I abandoned all stratagem
after seven years of battle,
no longer inspired
to vanquish the absurd.

The seduction garish, insistent,
an addict to futile solutions,
I sought to quell the churning
chaos of human nature,
to restrain our elegant destruction,
the relentless death of permanence –
idealism, my childhood chum,
finally estranged. My regret:
comprehension arrived too slowly.

I shall endeavor (or endure)
seven years of silence,
though an unlikely buddha,
bumbling through karma,
unversed in nirvana.
I shall likely fail. Will this
silence be equally clamorous,
another predictable fixation,

this shut mouth simply
another rickety construct?
Will my lips be lazy fools
or screwed tight, a hatch
holding back a muddy deluge?
My regret: compassion so vital,
arrived too slowly. I wonder
if there will be a quiet life
after seven years of silence.

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