Literary Misdirection

On these pages, times of grief and joy
are spun out of form and into things ideal
and grim. 

They persuade the mind, with calamitous
intent, to suspend acquired visions, so
that for just one simple moment, a utopian
vision can exist. 

The modes of these stylistic conventions
are not as innovative as you'd imagine a
passion to conjure.

Instead, they seek to replicate, with
ordinary oddity, the conversations amongst
the most loved and hated of our forms. 

With exception, there are those creations
derived from pure expression of the will;
where the only goal is authentic artistic
vanity. 

True, at some moment or another, all of us
have dared to devise schemes for
ownership without much creed to win.
And surely, as do dogs within
domesticated homes, we too attempt
resistance to Pavlov's scientific whim. 

But as death surely unravels the mysteries
of death, so does this page nurture time
with time.

And yet, here I am, several stanzas in, persistently
trying to rephrase my vastly shared traditions; 
the capitalization of expression, being the
far more desired of these worded troves. 

Still, as often as the sun rises and brilliant
moon falls, so do my digressions persist;
despite their wayward paths upon stepping-stones
toward lore.

So as you walk about, be weary of the time
you spend and sour intentions you
suppose, as I guarantee this ending is a
guise to return you this poem's front door.