Sunday, July 20, 2014

This Lament for Cowards

Fold at the edges,
make of yourself
those many indentations.
Colour inside the lines,
your patchwork person;
that if forged with fury, 
wine and time;
surely purges
ever-waking mind. 
Long is the destiny for seekers of
God in truth and Truth in god,
and where they falter
striketh staff and rod.
The fortunate get crushed completely;
that extreme pressure
of perfectly crystallized ideas -
swimming in paper, 
drowned in digital translators;
this epiphany, infinitely fast and
flashing in electron transistors..
whereby night and to this light the
children flutter, 
race and fly,
moths to lamplight;
close enough to watch,
but not to burn their eyes.  
Peering by pale windows,
sunken, drunk in bright 
delirious delight;
ever clamouring,
scraping and declaring
proclamations for their rights;
those inalienable beauties,
empty phonemes forgotten
from a long-lost fight.
The forefathers' sightless descendants languish long
in their masquerade, 
evading the array of truths betrayed.
Skulls wrapped, 
bound and tightly strapped -
they suppress the smothered breath beneath their masks. 
When trumpets flare,
and liberty is set about by flames,
and the Atlantean fall of mankind's set to rage,
will mere children bear the sword,
as in the days of old?
Will they to battle, in frenzy,
with passion for the peril
of their souls? 
Beware the embrace of creature comfort,
It is a gripping anaconda,
constricting us.
Willingly, we hang these
heavy laurels on our heads. 
They press on our babbling encumbered temples,
steeping us in placid,
accidental madness. 
Every abandoned principle a stone in your pocket.
Every silence of noble ideas around your neck an oaken amulet.
Heavier still is the burden of our
faltering conviction, 
those seasons of wild calamity gone,
and forgotten too the songs
of fire and death, 
smoke and blood. 
One wonders, 
when the storm barrels through heaven, 
that avalanche of rain and wind,
who will sink and who will swim? 
The spring of romance is done.
Liberty fades by every dusk to dark,  slow-motion tumbling leaves
dripping and drying,
bereaved of the tree and
scattered in the whole wind flying:
the sun and sky and moonlight 
enormous before them;
looming so bright and violent it
makes meek their subversive demeanour,
a slow downturn to dust.
So they linger and lament their loss,
embrace their own demise.. 
wet with wool blankets 
hanging heavy over eyes. 

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