On it goes

My fingers stretch and try
to reach
your imagination;
a brittle grasp at most
a sequence without ending
Jack: he saw both

But Jack’s a piece of work
Jack: “How’d you even know?
You’re weak!
You’re Maxwell’s dreaming!
Pointless,
just for show!”

But Jack, that’s just you doll
and you, well, you do you
nothin’ but you, to be honest
Jack: “Boy, are you a fool?
have I not thaught you better?
Not to do as you do?“

And Jack just pushes forwards
Jack just carries on
laments the lost art of making
wine into song
and misses
all that matters