I have not slept in thirty- eight years. I fear the blurred images of trees growing crippled, and babies falling from the twisted, brittle, boughs will haunt my dreams.
I saw a woman yesterday. Her face long and gray, with lines of distaste burrowed where her forgotten smile once vivaciously played. Alone- she sat watching as her world around her erased. She rose with most statuesque grace, and walked over to a candy counter, where her ten dollar bill was replaced with a brown paper bag.
Anticipation washed over the pollution in her eyes, as she opened her heaven, and buried her hand into the soon-to-be litter disguised as a gift, revealing a finger-tip size piece of dark chocolate paradise, and popped it into her mouth- and the woman smiled again.
Everyone has become a monk- following an order of their own convenience. Mankind are like mice. Although they scurry about in separate directions through the maze of time- they are each sniffing out the same prize.
The prize; momentary satisfaction, even though the moment melts into a seductive memory once settled upon the tongue.
I roam within the valley of mountains built by human hands to house the restless. Even the sun attempts escape- radiating against shiny armor, becoming a reflection of white fire which severs back into indigo skies as rippled, pulsing, waves.
Birds perch on concrete streams- picking meticulously for feed through the rubble of the streets. Flowers wilt along the waste-side and realize, they have been born without reason to possess a scent so sweet.
I find myself wondering; if we no longer inhale the scent of a blossom, will the peddled angel cease to exist? If the wings of a bird no longer free us of our cares, and we no longer listen to their chorus, will they cease to accompany our ears, our sights?
And the lonely, search amongst the lonely- collecting more pieces of man-made device, in hopes that the collection will one day make them whole again.
I find myself wondering; how can peace breathe in a land where euphoria fits in the palm of a hand, and requires a battery charger as part of the divine plan? A plan conceived from iron dreams that spit upon the earth, to satisfy the cravings of man.
Who are the predators, and who are the prey- when each strives for the fortune which cannot be bought, only inherited, when the treasure before us the simplicity for which we were born to appreciate.
I am deserted, an abandoned orphan by the prophesy of 'what is, and what shall be'. I do not adhere to these plastic trilogies. I walk in the dust of 'what once was' - opening my eyes to all of earth's remaining purity. Lost within the wilderness of the machine, I run to primitive meadows of spiritual bound security.
-However, this is my time; the hour in which I was chosen to be. As I walk the path of roses, I must respectfully accept the thorns which score at the tender flesh of my feet- for these are the nails which have been driven by the blindness of humanity.
And I shall stretch my arms high, with faith by my side, that even in the dimness of light, that I may catch the fallen babies.
I find myself wondering; maybe it is I who is spinning to fast to be seen, and maybe it is the world- which is holding still.
