They've made life so convenient
that we wander through our days,
trying to find ways to occupy the
distance future always brings.
Tradition has become a sport of
better than the rest. Loving ways
have been downplayed as if they
never passed the tests of time.
Do you remember when, just
hands became an ecstasy...? And
whispering within the dark, we bared
our hearts and souls to one another.
Before our lives became just sex,
and then the run-away. That once
upon a time when we would choose
to spend our days together, just
because we really wanted to.
Back when money was no more
than means of an exchange, instead
of everything we based the tenets
of our lives and love upon.
Cookies baking, music making
everything alive; joy unshaken by
the endlessness of alibis. Now we
seem to run from here to there, but
never quite arrive at all into a space
where we can be all right, and need
no more than that. Instead, we feel
we must compete for every breath
of air we breathe.
Fire flaring, wood invoking
like states of being. Flames arising,
snuffed out for a lack of fresher air.
Metal chips to hold our many memories
in tact. Constant moving pictures
played to fill our weary eyes. A stream
of words in search of meaning, teasing
at the edges of a consciousness too
overgrown to feel a feathered touch,
no matter its appeal.
Flashing spotlights, never
for just one special scene. Rivers
run and crash into each other, as
the seams of our reality are warped
and bent into a central set; leading
us to see no more than everybody
else has come to see. And this
they call society these days.
Traffic flowing, ordered into curves
and turning corners. When will
we ever find a path that we might
call our own?
Eerily, we drift - like mist,
before the preset molds took hold
of us. Plastically, our skin becomes
the prison walls we never walk beyond.
Cells, once individual, become
no more than storage boxes, cubed
and stacked and waiting for their turn
at opening. The piles grow and yet
we never find the time to search
for patterns in the varied states
of mind that flow through us so
endlessly amid a deeper feel of vast
confusion. Doors open, just to close
again, and still we dare not choose to enter
there. Wishing not to feel what all
those living memories imply.
Dick and Jane still run from
anything that's real; for they have never
found the depth of real relationship.
Chemists mock and stop the growing
weaves of loving symmetry, insisting on
a healing that only causes more disease.
Idols stare at nothing much at all, wishing
they might finally step right off their
pedestals into the world. Bombs become
mere fireworks of newborn killing sprees.
Desensitized and piloted, as if another
wave of those computer games were
finally put on sale.
The masses huddle, miserably
- a smile
plastered on each molded face; the grace
of life become no more than unsolved
mysteries they never came to comprehend
within experience at all. Miracles are
thought to be the newest electronic
state of art. The wonder of all magic
scoffed at, thought to be no more than
slight of hand. A single candle, burning
fitfully, serves only to bring terror to
the fore. We pass it on and on in hopes
we never will be burnt by all the heat that
it implies. The fire of life - how is it that
we've come to be afraid of even this...?
The treasury holds only printed
its vaults; the golden glare of power
greedily imbibed by all the many lights
of all those thieving eyes. Pass or punt,
we cannot seem to find a worthwhile goal
toward which to strive, that does not threaten
all the many binds of intellectual security.
What abyss do we send our children toward...?
In learned ideals, preached to us by gospels
that will only lead to nevermore of life and love
in time. The earth itself refuses to keep up
with all our gross demands, as secretly, we plot
and plan another forest's death to fill the coffers
of that treasury yet one more time around.
Destructively, we urge the
on our peers, if only for a momentary feel
of eminence. Racing round another bend,
we curse the fender bender that we're in.
At night, we raise our glasses high and try
to socialize. Wandering, returning home to
families that live within a state of isolated
loneliness amid their separate groups.
And this, we call the richness of our lives.
Conveniently, we go to sleep and suffocate
our dreams; knowing that another day awaits
us, just the same as yesterday - but still afraid
to scream the many growing pains out loud,
no matter all the age that we've accrued.
Vaguely still, we sense a
similarity to youth,
as restlessly, we pace the same old circles
in our cage. Convenient, how we still refuse
to note the open door, beckoning us home,
to the unknown...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...