I
this day is a fiction wrapped in cotton
soft- soft and it rubs against you and you
take in its warmth
yes- the warmth of it
feel the just deeds around you
feel the power around you
control what is around you.
recall that hope is a hammer and
you are nothing without something to hang onto
do not ponder escape
do not look for death
for in unseen spaces around you he will find
you
alone- a lone man
what could you possibly do?
II
where is the man when he leaves his waste?
where is the man when death follows with haste?
where is the man at the end of the day?
where is the man, where does he stay?
where is the man- has he broken his stride?
where is the man- has he already died?
III
the construction
of the man
was a complex plan
riddled with the simplicity
of a still lake
unbothered by all that lies around it:
the blowing wind, the whispering trees,
the darkest eyes, the distant seas…
HAS THIS ALL BEEN LOST?
can we get it back?
do we even deserve it?
the troubles of some unknown creator
or un-creator
that can make a new world over us
and forget us like he should
our poor, poor race
how many chances are we going to have to go through before we know what we’ve done?
we are in no condition or position to say we tried.
IV
cast aside our dark rituals, our petty ceremonies
we’ve all tried too hard to find a real purpose
when really it was never there
we were meant to live
but we did too much.
V
can we live with the grief or will we die with our ignorance?
will all of my questions go unanswered?
will all of my questions go unanswered?
will all of my questions go unanswered?