Oh the sluggish days The pensive nights Where amber eyes appeared out of the darkness in which protruded endless file cabinets containing the live wire tapped emotions
Taking that decrepit road all the way to the front door. And all the while the unanswered prayers littered the roadside, lost dreams cascaded down the hills, empty promises tumbled over the fence lines like the remnants of a forgotten alley.
And when the old hill burned it took the warmth in this town with it, and we all just stood and watched. Trampled by madness until it became the norm. Mob mentally. Status quo.
Pride dissolved in vats of acid and fed what remained. Choking streets, filing into buses, shuffling into subways. Eyes wide but nothing is seen, mouths agape but nothing is uttered.
Prefabricated personalities. Spongy hipsters and gilded divas gather to drown their sorrows and howl at the moon. Discarding respect along with debris. Instantly someone else’s problem.
And it comes up from the floor and out of the walls to entice, entrance and entangle me. A tantalizing request. A bitter smile. Staring at the clock until the minute hand turns into glittering silver liquid, drips down the wall and forms the sign of infinity at your feet.
The answer is simple. But there was never a question. Tumultuous times. The American Dream. As they line up the middle class in front of a firing squad.
Do you look both ways before crossing the street, meticulous and weary like one of the hollowed eyed lost? Or turn a blind eye and let destine tug at your sleeve, like a needy child, devoid of attention in an unfamiliar apartment that turns out to be you own? Subjective realities.
It matters not. Sources for transformation exist.
Our synapses simply cannot connect, for we cling together cling together in glowing, isolated communities like Hoovervilles, scattered across the globe. Hemorrhaging information.
Clinging, tattered, torn