Late Night Assonance

A Confession

I had never planned
to be a maker—it came
completely by chance:

an accident of time
and place—; but, I confess, I
respect the romance

of the whole shebang
that, with the cool weft of words,
comes the antic prance

of rich history
and tradition.  It appeals;
and, casting a glance

at posterity,
I detect hazy signs of
brief significance

and assume that the
world as it is never needs
any relevance

in nuance or sense
or in pontification
or continuance

for I never planned
to be a maker or a
publisher of rants.

What does that all mean?
Sometimes, meaning takes a break
to let the words dance.

UPDATE (7 September, 2013):  a critic, on Facebook, wrote that I ought not to “give away the daytime employment.”  I replied:

Give away my job?
You assume I do more than
write this sort of stuff.

Sorry to break it
to you but this is all I
do; and that’s enough.

The same critic then wrote a lengthy paragraph complaining of my “feathered opinion”; I responded:

I don’t know what a
feathered* opinion might be.
I apologise

for wasting your time.
It’s my fault; clearly I’m not
sufficiently wise,

but ephemera
on Facebook ought not to be
for harsh critics’ eyes.

* A peacock’s plumage
may be bright, a raven’s less
colourfully limned;

moreover, “feathered”
might refer to when a ’plane’s
airscrew’s blades are trimmed.