lights blinking through the red.
Christmas times were being fed.
Rushing through the market place.
Not finding time for any grace at all.
Running to a job and then back home.
Insert a few more classes and the tomes
became too thick to carry all alone.
the approach at every angle.
Make it shiny, call it all newfangled.
Why was it that the mystery within
their children's eyes did not alight...?
No matter all the gold, so shiny bright.
And they hadn't learned to read
or write too well. But caught within
the spell of do or die, the parents noted
yet another hue of pale within their
children's hair and skin and eyes.
darkness grew. The church pretended
to abide the great malevolence that
seemed to come to view by ordinary chance.
But the angels didn't sing and dance
within the choir anymore. While all
the wrong repeated endlessly. Even there,
so personal, within the cells the doctors
called diseased. There was no turning back,
not any more. Doors once opened, sealed
themselves far from any shore where
loving humans dwelt.
once swelling, shrank back into
nevermore. No matter any distance
to the shore. The golden sand grew dirty.
Oil spills that bled into the bones of beings
once thought free. Humanity had injured
so much more than just the human feel
of free. Desecrated altars floated in
the flotsam of a meant to be that had
turned diseased and perished in the wake
of all their loss of tender caring.
in more southern climbs, the altars
of the Inca's chanted their futility again.
Blood flowing swiftly through the halls
of every manmade fall. Satanic rites
and voodoo offerings. Canonizing
the removal of their spleens.
Pop artists held in infamy that never
cared to clean their stalls' defeat.
hero spasmed right out in the street.
Meekly realizing that his death had been
made real. Even as a thousand moving
picture images were moving through his mind.
The light was bright. The pain was gone.
If only he had spoken once unto the everyone.
About the way it all had felt within him.
He closed his eyes, and one more time,
he found there, his despair.
of flesh, yet soul still lingers on.
Seeking for the brightness of the sun.
Finding only washed-out images.
Of days of old that could have been
made real again in time. Lingering,
the chime of church bells, crying out
another funeral. Tears spent, but
never quite enough for anything at all.
there beyond the hills,
the sea prepared itself -
to wash it all away
and start again...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2003 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .