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| PHOTO BY SI |
We try hard to fit into big adult shoes, the kind of shoes that command supremacy,
Supremacy of belief, supremacy of opinion, supremacy of bodily integrity, supremacy of space, to boldly go where...
In those shoes, we could be like them,
the ones with privileged destinies,
handcrafted by doting deities.
the ones with privileged destinies,
handcrafted by doting deities.
But we weren't born of that magnetic quality, Instead, we were a homely, pedestrian variety, Invisible to the artist's deft hands,
for the artist's muse can no doubt be,
Anything other than beauty,
Beholden in their creator's eye.
for the artist's muse can no doubt be,
Anything other than beauty,
Beholden in their creator's eye.
We must then seek satisfaction in tainted dust,
Deluding us on our trip towards elusive heights,
that all but vanish into oblivion when mediocrity rises with the sun.
Success is their glory, while ours, mere fantasy,
Infected with some kind of cataclysm,
that, upon detonation, reveals the poverties of our reckless minds.
An insatiable Hunger. For the Elevation of our Being.
Yet, we linger evermore, in deference, temple to the ground,
Humili-tied to the bondage of invisibility,
No other place to go, we retreat into a wounded esteem,
Hanging by a crystalline thread.
Deluding us on our trip towards elusive heights,
that all but vanish into oblivion when mediocrity rises with the sun.
Success is their glory, while ours, mere fantasy,
Infected with some kind of cataclysm,
that, upon detonation, reveals the poverties of our reckless minds.
An insatiable Hunger. For the Elevation of our Being.
Yet, we linger evermore, in deference, temple to the ground,
Humili-tied to the bondage of invisibility,
No other place to go, we retreat into a wounded esteem,
Hanging by a crystalline thread.
In a fatal turn towards stygian shores,
We're drawn instinctively to hallowed turf,
Populated by a uniformed Authority,
that all too soon, discover our strange ilk is made of vices.
We're drawn instinctively to hallowed turf,
Populated by a uniformed Authority,
that all too soon, discover our strange ilk is made of vices.
Such sufferings are found across human terrains, however motley,
A convergence of countless stoned effigies,
Nothing more than confined paracletes of you and I.
It's the common thread that keeps running through us,
So, do not dare to ascend the well-calibrated rungs, for, at the top, is an unseen quietus,
Expertly formulated by thick-skinned Justice, this, our new sentence, declared,
For no other grounds but the peurile audacity of our skittish hearts.
Stop now! Stop that which we carelessly granted ourselves.
Stop the abdication of our cursed counterfeit crowns,
neuro-configured in cells, where requisite rehab was the prototype.
Sadly, free will interfered with the predetermined slithering of the thread.
Fools!
The spindle would have run its course!
These four walls would have given way to our Liberation!
But, for that carnage-prone dis-eaze, that love has forsaken!
We now listen for the sound of reverberating footsteps,
An overture for the final symphony that might surely end with mechanized applause,
An ear-splitting clap-clap, followed by 15 seconds of silence,
A twisted mimicry by the Heads - with a hint of irony on speed,
of the 15 years as punishment for our compulsive deeds.
Too late.
You and I are now dead.
Nothing more than confined paracletes of you and I.
It's the common thread that keeps running through us,
So, do not dare to ascend the well-calibrated rungs, for, at the top, is an unseen quietus,
Expertly formulated by thick-skinned Justice, this, our new sentence, declared,
For no other grounds but the peurile audacity of our skittish hearts.
Stop now! Stop that which we carelessly granted ourselves.
Stop the abdication of our cursed counterfeit crowns,
neuro-configured in cells, where requisite rehab was the prototype.
Sadly, free will interfered with the predetermined slithering of the thread.
Fools!
The spindle would have run its course!
These four walls would have given way to our Liberation!
But, for that carnage-prone dis-eaze, that love has forsaken!
We now listen for the sound of reverberating footsteps,
An overture for the final symphony that might surely end with mechanized applause,
An ear-splitting clap-clap, followed by 15 seconds of silence,
A twisted mimicry by the Heads - with a hint of irony on speed,
of the 15 years as punishment for our compulsive deeds.
Too late.
You and I are now dead.
This poem is dedicated to RLS and others in similar circumstances whose punishment surpasses their “crime”.
