Reception

Her life is slow-born drudgery.
Listlessly, she sits behind
the sliding glass - encased,
enclosed - her only out the clock
when it finally strikes five again.

They gave her a title and told her to be
just what they needed her to be,
no matter need she felt so deep inside.
So she modeled their hypocrisy,
for to fight the system meant no more
than a solitary life of no support.

Receptionist, so she receives
the cold of negativity, unrelieved
by voices that are so detached
she never seems to see the other side;
and in between, she simply stares
at nothing quite at all,
wondering at the sheerness of the fall
each time the system made her feel
so utterly inconsequential.

Her eyes are vacant, almost lifeless;
hair dulled within a sense of giving up,
emotions held so deep within
to followevery rule and whim they ply,
no matter how her spirit spins
and rattles at the bonds
of its imprisonment.

No where to run to, no where to hide,
she takes what no one else abides
and slithers home at end of day
to suffer with her ill-earned pay;
playing with another fantasy -
to free herself from that insanity.

Strangers wonder at her walking down the street,
laughing quietly within a joke that's never told
and her version of a world conceived
so boldly by her inner eye,
that all that once seemed high and low
is merged into an in between
that schemes and dreams
in unrequited unity.

No prejudice to hold one back
so that another gets ahead.
None seen as just a stepping stone
lost deep within the mire
at the bottom of the stack -
instead of as a cornerstone
that steadies everyone in its position.

No deals dealt in bloody wrath,
back stabbed again in aftermath;
instead all spoken words as true
resounding from the depth of pure emotion -
the ground, the base, the matrix -
where humanity must meet again in peace.

And if all wealth were shared
within the greatness of its shattering,
how the grandness of the world would flare
in everlasting gratitude of freedom sung,
within a graduated symphony
composed of loving moments that live on,
beyond the checks and balances conceived
by blind injustice.

But what does she know?
And who can she tell?
that would help to make
her dreams come true,
here within a world built
on hierarchic order.

For she's been labeled and been branded,
neatly stamped and always reprimanded
each time she chose to be herself,
until she shelved the attitude of her equality
and stumbled home within the dark
to dream her dreams alone
at a place that she calls home;
where darkness plays and no one waits
to guide her to the feel of her reception . . .

?Michaelette?

1/18/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...