for Chris
A thought; no more.
The barest flicker of consciousness,
the afterglow of a neuron's fire.
But all that marks a concept's passage,
smoldering embers of a mental pyre.
The world turns,
darkness descends,
nightjars start their call;
dancing queens meet their Waterloo,
newcomers join the ball.
But now our vanity holds sway;
caprimulgus are in decline,
well that's a crisis for another day.
Bhopal and Port Harcourt stained our teenage years,
heavy smoke obscured the water.
Our generation was fooled again,
despite protest anthems against imagined slights
from sharp suits wielding the power we would one day inherit.
Untouched by time or tide
we failed to fear the reaper,
though he stalked us none-the-less;
amid fast cars and alcohol-haze
we wandered yellow-brick roads,
our destinations uncertain.
Questions of a future we were yet to believe in.
But now our vanity holds sway;
caprimulgus are in decline,
well that's a crisis for another day.
Psychedelic warlords rode their silver machines,
polluting the air with incense and ideology,
exhaust fumes and whitenoise;
genocide by apathy,
suicide by consent.
We watched as ground control lost contact,
and tin cans collected in the space above our heads.
On the street confused cruisers danced the strand,
the world spun and the angels left our shoulders;
leaving us to a compromised faith,
needing replenishment with money from our pockets
and empty phrases from shallow hearts.
But when our vanity goes away;
caprimulgus have declined,
and we face a crisis from another day.
When the vanity dies away;
caprimulgus have declined,
we face a crisis from another day.
(repeat until fade)
