Poetical Prerogative

Why would I ask a question
Whose answer is like a brother to him?
What need does my imagination have,
To quietly burn that which I do not know?

Surely I would soar between the stars,
If they would tear down their picket fences.
May the critics of old be reflected in the faces
And the minds of those who are not my critics.

Why should I live on your grounds,
When you claim to have a house on them?
Why should I give you the floor,
When you are incapable of nailing my tongue to it?

The day your words inspire me,
I will surely find a better way to say them.
The moment you disagree with me,
I will see to it that you sample ancient passion.

For I stand opposite my antonym,
A dark lord and his abyss.
Can there be any doubt at a time such as this may soon be?
Do you hear anything but fanciful poetry from me?

Years from now, my friend, and miles
Men will come for days and lectures.
Children to their adulthood declarations,
Those older than others will count me as wise.

And they will gather, for their completeness’ sake
Some will feel their many feathers break.
They will be of one accord,
Critics of my work be spurned!

So let your people come,
And find that my people have deeper scars.
I am one of these peoples’ emissaries at night,
And you are simply one of their dreams.

What will you say to the sun, the moon?
Say it now, lest men forget, as men are prone to do.
And when your bones receive the answers to your questions,
The sky will feel you deserve your privacy, and tell no other.

As for the world, let them rejoice!
They will taste the salt of my tears
And accept their responsibility to the ancient lore,
Which no erroneous man could have breathed and lived!

For I am no mere mortal, my friend.
You bear the greatest of gifts, that spark of pure blessing!
For you are an intellectual, devoted to truth and bones and bits of string,
While I bear this most indelible curse of impetuous manuscription.

Truly, I suffer as a poet, but I know that when my time is done,
I will exchange my burden for the glamour of that infinite certainty,
The presumption of truth that generations will ascribe to my works
When they celebrate a great mind devoted to stating the truth of ages
And the replete conclusion of the critics of my time.