And every city street
At five o clock on a weeknight
Reflects the same conceit;
Lassitude, oblivion, boredom and defeat.
And we are a race that has been reversed,
And risen in retreat,
Though our empty dramas are still rehearsed
To the sounds of a faltering beat;
"No end yet to the old refrain,
To the song that does not fade,
We sow the seed, and reap the grain,
And thus is the world remade."
It is not love we seek, but only release
From captivity
Only a shadow on a wall, a march in time
To a meaningless beat.
Yet, my mouth wants to speak:
"Silence, cease breath, do not speak of Death
That can speak for itself.
The shadows that form on the wall
Contain our fall,
And all the shapes we see therein
Are merely dreams.
The love that we exude;
Useless as a dog's breath in captivity.
The passions we pretend,
Uncovered, are clouded forms of common vanity.
And these pages come from a cheapskate muse, plastic and immutable;
Petals of that ancient bloom long proven to be mythical.
