The morning's relentless shine
creates a nuanced, rough and ready picture of the world
Of a planet truly at peace, where peace wanes
And war, my inner war, reigns.
Trying to find recollection in all this revision
is a permeating, but disheartening theme.
Like it was all a dream.
Like it's all a dream.
"But anyway,"
Yeah, that's what we say
When push comes to shove
And we have to open up our painful places.
Those places no one wants to hear about
But wants everybody to hear.
Trading sight for sound, touch for taste
The coldest of stares, for that warm embrace.
A ubiquitous distribution of pain
Built into Nature itself.
Sound.
The most piercing sound is when no one's around
And that high pitched dog-whistle tells
Of your aloneness.
Of our aloneness.
Of the world's aloneness.
But it's the morning
And I have enough distraction to make it through the day.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment