Outside the Lines

We see colors but not
form.
A grotesque manifested
rainbow whose hues have
drawn thin and thick -
twisted - snarled - vicious -
without law; chaotic.

What will draw our visions to fine
point?
Is it an omniscience above us?
Is it the affection of another
that makes flee chaos?
Shall the poet, (from insomniac contention)
construct from rubble and refuse
clarity - calm perfection -
a centre; alien to confusion's reign,
a blueprint by which to
know the latitude of a sensical shape?

Can the poet perform any duty
more loyal and regal
than affixing a sabled truth
to our so short lives?

But, for as much as I've read,
I'm still a kindergartner coloring outside
the lines.