No Middle Flight

by flammeusgladius

No Middle Flight

 

 

You wrote the finest sonnets, and the worst.
Yet in your epic you declined to rhyme.
You drew the noble sense out every time
Into eternity. They almost burst,
The lines you charged with force, and fiends accursed
Battered against the boundlessness sublime
That they mistook for limits. Set to climb
A mountain, you took wing and then rehearsed
The liberty of Heaven. I’ve been taught
To name you heretic. Such petty souls,
Daring to issue every ouch and ought
That gnaws their nerves! They dwell in self-shaped holes
And celebrate the nothing they have wrought.
They lack the scope to comprehend your goals.

 

 

–Tom Riley

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