With All of Us

Looking for a feeling of the way it used to be.
When it seemed we had a chance of being free.
Wondering if freedom might be just a fairytale.
Stumbling. Pain rising in each swell of words
too often spoken without meaning.
Leading back to promises forsaken.
Discovering that happenings of long ago
have somehow grown along with all of us.
Characters and stages changing.
Props they're always rearranging.
While the essence of experience
rings constantly the same inside.
Climbing up the spiral slide.
Clinging to the things we had.
A feint, and in an instant, all is lost.
Images within the mind that run
and change, insistently emerging.
Plays turning into tragedies.
No matter that the games seem make-believe.
Then falling down the tunnel of a pliant empathy.
Exquisitely enduring every sting of silent deeds
Bound within the secrets held inside.
When the tapestry of life cannot abide.
Your sequence and your signature
are being torn to shreds.
To bits and pieces of an altered style of dread.
Looking for a partner that might fill the isolation.
Dreading the inflation that deletes remembering.
Engorged by drops of falling rain.
Burnt up in bursts of light.
Enraptured by the colors
that spring up from black and white.
As a species, we are not superior.
From ancient days to present times
our lives are still too full of pantomime.
Animal in nature - those new pleasures that we seek.
Still stomping on the poor and weak among us.
Preaching of ideals that only end in animosity.
Blaming it on others so they have to pay the price.
Relaying brightness in a storm of ice
that heeds no feeling of the heart.
Running on without an end in sight.
Ignoring every test of new beginnings.
Settling for useless repetitions.
Unable to ignore the rise of waves
in riptides of emotional upheaval.
No matter depth or width of our denial.
It starts again. We cannot fend it off.
Looking for a feeling of the way it used to be.
When it seemed we had a chance of being free.
Wondering if freedom might be just a fairytale.
Stumbling. Pain rising in the swell
of words too often spoken without meaning.
Leading back to promises forsaken.
Discovering that happenings of long ago
have somehow grown along with all of us.
Old ideals sleeping deep within the incubus.
Lost and all alone, then letting go...

? Michaelette ?

5/28/2005
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .