Language is terribly vague,

and there are not words to describe the slight tremble of tears

or the subtle elation of the rain.

Instead we play at alchemy,  

mixing adjectives and gerunds while we try to find gold.

Even a fool's gold shines brighter than brass.

Perhaps poetry suffers from lonely musings devoid of the muses,

as emptied virtues play at beauty,

but maybe that's all the muses ever were.

So quality remains hidden; not dead,

and there's still time before the dark to revise despair.

Not to advocate universal genius by any means, 

but if apathy doesn't paralyze the majority into deafness

there may be room for genius yet to sound.

If then, all cannot be great, all can learn to recognize reality,

and by doing so, love those things worthy of love.

Leaving faceless idols to crumble away in light.