Where does one go, when
no longer serves to hold the vastness
of their concentrated effort...? When haunting
memories invade their waking states of sleep;
expanding what they used to see in tunnel vision;
opening new vistas, past to future, that can take
their breath away.
What can one do, when blue
only color they can really feel...? And tears appear,
unwanted and unasked, upon the pillowcase
each time they seek a moment's rest;
strength become no more than just a weight
that they no longer have the will to want to move.
When the grooves that they have lived their life within
become a sodden, muddy rut - no matter how
the sunshine plays in dusty motes
on sunny summer days.
How can one lift one's
spirit, when for so long they
insisted on its silence and compliance to
society and standards set by reams of others,
still unknown to them...? Questions come to flood
the mind, yet answers still are lost inside a body/mind
that never really came to know itself at all. As uncaringly,
they reach again, for realms where feeling never used
to enter into play. But even here, as time goes on,
comes a dysfunction, for a pressure has been building
Faster, faster - minds
are made to whirl within the swirls
of an information age that can no longer find the sense
to just one life of individual adventure and experience.
Sitting still, behind the wheel, we speed down highways
leading to another space so like the one we thought to
leave behind. Slowly then, the change sets in - as spirit
rises to the fore, invisibly unspoken, yet still unbroken
by the many chains of high command. Then in what seems
a sudden move, our world view is shattered into bits and
pieces - as something that is ours begins to break the
many bonds of its imprisonment.
A sadness, once thought
spent upon another kind of
movement, begins to hauntingly convey itself in what
they used to see as all reality. They smile, as they
always did, each time a smile is called for by the rules
of their society; but now, this smile is tendered by
the sorrow glowing softly and succinctly in their eyes.
They move, yet movement brings no gain, for loss
is what they feel - but this, they're told, must never
really be expressed at all.
Still, the many losses
of their lives will have their say,
if only in the haunted dreams that speak in tears to
proffer small relief of healing, unheard and disregarded
by what they deem the waking state of life they have to live.
Decisions based on feeling turned to vows they spoke
in youthful days, have turned to no more than a feeling
of extensive emptiness; the world that once seemed to
be a stage where actors played and audiences came
to find them there, remains a fantasy still unredeemed.
Now the stages are too many, the actors growing old,
reviews an unknown luxury; for only criticism plagues
the pages of the literary who think themselves elite.
They sense a distant flow,
yet never seem to reach
into its realm of streaming energy; as once in youth
they did so naturally. The rut became too stuck; its
riverbed gone dry as high emotions were concealed
deep within. They pop a pill for all the many pains
that still remain - unspoken, unreleased - still
hidden in the shadows that they dare not enter in.
An anger writhes inside, yet even this must never
be allowed to have a say; no matter all the rights
the systems claim to grant them, day by endless day.
A pall is cast o'er all
that used to seem exciting;
energizing is a word that's now preserved in merely
chemical composure - measured carefully by a machine.
And hearts that used to sing beat sluggishly, until
they fill their systems with a substance like caffeine.
Health is measured by clinicians trained to never
feel their pain at all. Drugs doled out, insuring that
we never come to feel the real of life that might be
lived in honesty, if only all those clocks would find
a way to stop just running on and on.
Their dreams are named
invalid fantasies, as they
wonder where the worth they used to feel of life
has been mislaid again today - another day so
like the many others - past and future shrunken
into habits that have little meaning left in them.
And so they spin their living fate - faster, faster,
to abate the growing fear that whispers more
and more within their ears. Will they ever take
the time to make amends for love unspent?
A silent scream rings loudly
through their being;
asking only that they listen to its call. Appalled
with what it has to say, they merely run away again,
into that one-time rut that circles round and round
itself, and never really made a difference - not at all.
Life is spent, they're simply thrown away, like all the
other refuse of our day and age. Replaceable, like
any other piece of a machine. Reams of paper leave
a trail to follow, yet hollow is the empty space
where spirit once indwelled.
A swell, and catastrophic
the only way to save a soul from this - the living
death that seems to bleed its way into their
waking days. They run yet faster still, blaming
all their many ills on something other than the life
they always chose to live. It matters not,
that conscience still exists, for they have
followed all the rules to reap success,
too oft' defined as no more than a gross
of money sitting in a bank.
A sense of peace compels
them to a state
of letting go, for soon enough their rut will
be refilled by yet another, and there is nothing
left that matters to them - no, not anymore.
They are enchanted by a feel of pure relief.
Feeling old and spent, they find a bench
to rest their wearied bones upon;
and simply fade away...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...