Paradox

Ah, the fruits of a paradox,
Since paradoxes multiply themselves --

They are puzzles that puzzle,
Sayings that do not know what to say,

Long lines of fat truths crowded out
By slinking falsehoods, the adamant links

Of a broken chain fastened on a watch
At the end of time. Their temptation

Is the seduction of the key-hole
By the key, and yet both key

And hole are so very different:
The container is not

What it contains. But what is a paradox?
A glimpse of something infinite

Embedded in our finitude, or the promise
Of a blaze in our infinite darkness?

True, they fascinate like flames --
But better, perhaps, to look away,

Better to live by the shadows of our day
Than the moonlight of Reason's unfathomable night.