Foucault's Folly

 strangely smiles that seem so deep but do not reach the pale

do not find a purchase in the hidden hills and dales

but linger somewhere in between the skin what is beneath

and fester there, abyss where nothing lingers in the breach

not hidden from the heart but locked from words that speak

a blister 'neath the surface, behind the eyes so sleek

and no accolades can touch the poison that they hold

no trophy, sunshine splendid, can penetrate into the fold

of the deep uneasy comrade sitting just beyond the light

that has no form or constitution to direct a healthy fight

A label is applied and simply does not stay

descriptions offered up but not a map, a way

for the old ones are forgotten, the paths that one can walk

the beacon light was buried, found to be full of fault.

The marker of its grave has long since turned to dust

though it calls me still through the corruption and the rust

and speaks in whispered silence of a life that might have been

then, just beyond my grasp, dissipates into the wind.

leaves me here to wander, unfixed and searching for the ground

but I stretch my toes out earthward and, no, it can't be found.

So I seek the cheapened solace of the medicine at hand

a poultice to dissolve the compass of my soul

leaves me standing in a desert

longing for water to dive in.