Umbraculture

So you ask, curious wanderer,
why I sit in the maple's shade,
away from Sunday's creeping wonder
before an odd assortment in spring-glade.

So I say, to you my new friend;
put those few foolish doves to flight,
place on the grass your posterior end
and please, please sit in the light!

Lean close, lean close and receive-
(close those eyes, shut those windows!)
clear knowledge for the ignorant to grieve-
(psst-I'm a keeper of midday Shadows!)

Focus now how I do, and see:
by my pushing over that glass flask,
the black track turns into a Beauty;
a daintily-speckled funeral-cask!

Infidel, slanderer of my honest merit,
you look to me with two glazed stones.
Youth-doubt not, learn, and inherit:
in this most noble trade, I'm not alone!

Behold, the ascending Sun is my Master!
He who illumes all that's Unreal,
holds, molds by fire the murky plaster
that shifts, fades over the Potter's Wheel.

Poets, other fools, praise Night's darkness
with onerous odes and whispered creeds,
which worship and ward a Mass amorphous
that is naught but a garden of weeds!

But, with Dawn's luminous intrusion,
comes forth a blazing shower of knives;
cutting, felling the vines of Confusion,
to carve Golems and grant them lives!

So I, a farmer of day Phantoms,
tend and up-end trinkets in swarms;
the Tar coats my remote inner-Fathoms
and projects outward all true Forms.

Leave then-you stupid, cowardly man!
Abandon Revelation, you'll learn yet,
as your heart slows, succumbs to Time's sand;
everything that Is, is Silhouette!