The day is shunned by eyes that squint
In morning’s glint and gleam;
Trying to touch
And
make matter somehow,
The life of some otherwise
Lifeless corpse.
The night is kinder to the heart
That can never let in some other light
For fear the beams of such
explosion will
Destroy existence of near surreality.
Breath is drawn much like an afterthought;
Unnecessary, but obligatory.
And tired eyes look into our own,
With fear and apprehension.
As they ask us...
Is that all that this life can ever be?
Just one huge, unending, irrevocable
Guilt
trip?
What could there ever be
To find, desire, want
In such a world that lends
itself
So damn easily to pain?
How are we to want to live
Such tortures now so little-felt
By the masses,
Conditioned
over centuries,
To numb their minds to truth,
So that purgatory upon this earth
Is a sentence meted out solely
By
those who feel nothing anymore?
Pleasure no longer, then,
Can be considered a perk
For such an occupation
as humanity.
As pleasure never leads
To more than guilt
To not feel pain.
And so the story goes.
And so the wheels
Of industrial-strength manipulation
turn.
And so what once was honest endeavor;
Greeted, rewarded
By applause and admiration,
Is
now only another day,
Another crumpled bill
In the collective hands of apathy.
Step quietly over the next generation,
For they sleep uneasy;
Wrapped tightly
within their crib sheets,
As homeless, disenfranchised volitions.
No one wants to fail this test, and cheating’s become a way of life here.
For any one child
Who does not meet the standard
Is thrown away, off this great
Olympus.
We want no ugly, lame concerns, questions we could never hope to answer.
In the shadow of
Our grandest mountain of greed,
Wait the fallen, the stricken,
the forgotten ones.
Let those of us
Who failed to stand up,
Pray for the day
Those children clasp
greatest
Visions together
And become strong
Against the hate and crimes
Committed in the name
Of self-righteousness.
For they shall be, then
The ones to forge,
By sweat of furrowed brows,
The
hope and sacred dreams
To replace all those we so carelessly
Left to die alone.
In the soft, forgiving twilight
Of so many years spent sweeping tears
Into the
ocean,
We have, now but one chance yet
To make all of our wasted time matter.
We are thus commissioned,
As the forefathers and mothers
Of this Hell upon earth, leaving legacy
Nothing
beyond extinction, to...
Stitch together blankets
That once covered our children,
As they lay in the arms of commitment,
Run up something past debt,
Tailor these pieces, these patches into
A quilt of contemplative
conscience,
To drape up and over the hopes which lay
Dead at the enormous feet of circumstance.
We, after all, should at least be able
To afford our children’s dreams
A decent burial.
©2005 SPDworks
