Depth of All Denial

Balancing - a high wire strung
high above the fires of hell,
with no one here to tell us
where to go or what to do,
to ease the stress
of this enlightenment;
that is here and yet refuses
to become reality,
for society intrudes
with the might of moody waves.

And its moods and attitudes prevail,
refusing to be shaken by the vast majority.
While still we seek, we dream,
these dreams of a simplicity,
where love and truth will out;
and equality at last is seen
as the base and basic building block,
that supercedes these realms
of all that is unknown to us
within a sense of pure invisibility.

Even as they taunt and tease,
pretending to appease
this great desire that we feel;
flames burn higher, licking
tickling this flesh,
enforcing movement.
But to where and when and how
if not right back into the crowd . . . ?
Where individuality just simply
cannot be conceived.

Unless our focus is redeemed
and all of life and misery is seen
for what it is - no more than just
another stage in our development;
where time and effort spent
just never seem to be enough
to see us through the endless days
of what they say we ought to be.

Pushing, pulling
ripping, shredding, sticking -
as pieces of a vaster puzzle
come to be within this light of mind
seeking yet again their place
within a time-warped
tapestry of space.

Balancing upon a razor's edge
where one wrong move can prove
to be the death of all we know;
yet needing so to move,
that death itself becomes no more
than just a door to our redemption -
beyond the primal sanction
and belief that's spawned
of death-defying deeds.

They seek no more than popularity,
needing highs that cannot last,
denying all the pain of past encounters;
like parasites that feed upon
the heart and soul and breath
within the depth of their denial,
sinking deep to levels
of a cellular catastrophe,
approved and labeled
merely as disease.

And we are left,
hung loosely in the balance,
upon a high wire strung
just above the fires of hell,
with no one here to tell us
where to go or what to do;
as still we seek a path
to lead us past the past
they seem to know as all
that can be real.

Yet here we live,
and here we love,
beyond the depth of all denial -
where daemons come to dwell
and dance in sympathy . . .


Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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