Solitary Labour

Three desks

Three minds

By deeds alone are we known.

The knowing is one thing

And walking the path

A more terrible, yet more ethereal reality

To go inwards is to ascend

In layers difficult to see

Only perceive when they are over

In the social language spread by words

Image and sound, intent and action

The major Forms within us

Many duty bound to approximate ineffable feeling

Or send us to quite another place

Beyond the artist’s conception

A dozen victories along a crooked path

That may lead to unity is dissent

But still a path wandering

And heralding perfection by its passage.

Higher and higher

Until we have left ourselves in our transit.

By J.W.H. Hobbs.