The Poets Dilemma

What right have poets to beseech truth from poetry’s veil?
Is it not a fragile whisper, fleeting amidst the maelstrom,
A reverie crafted from ink, meant to capture what the eye can’t hail,
Yet clutched by hands yearning for warmth, for something whole?

Why do we demand the words to unveil light in a world sewn in obsidian,
As though mere script could dispel the suffocating gloom?
Is it not the prerogative of stars or the sun's blazing minion,
To rend the dark, to chase away what makes the heart assume?

How can mere glyphs, strung in their delicate order,
Possess the power to strip away the veils of unseen night?
Do they not quiver like a cosmos at its farthest border,
Groping for lucidity, for revelation’s fleeting light?

At what fathom will we permit our hearts to sink,
Before ascending the rungs of wisdom’s sacred spire?
Is it only in grief that we pause, reflect, and think,
Or in silence’s embrace, where we confront our deepest fire?

If the question were posed—“Death or a life without Poetry?”—which would you claim?
Would you surrender to the void or wield the quill as your lance?
And if Knowledge itself stood bare, would you dare the same,
To consume its burden, though it spirals into an unknowable trance?

What is true illumination when the poet’s plight is plain,
To question as a sage, to tear the heavens open wide?
What if the universe offered its truths, but only in pain—
Would you seize them, though they lead to naught but a hollow stride?

Rivers cascade; the sun bleeds, and still we pry,
Is the answer tucked in silence, or sung in the song?
For only in questions, not feeble answers, do we untie,
The enigma of the cosmos, where we all belong.