untitled poem

This is a lonely continent,

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.