Seems it’s true that the grass is always greener
On the other side of reality.
I’m floating here in the thick sludge of life,
Suspended between oil and mud – where’s water?
Suspended between grey and black – where’s white?
I’m looking for purity so absolute it’s sharp to the touch,
Able to slice to the molten core of truth that lays hidden
Beneath deception’s frozen landscape.
When did those snowdrifts begin to pile up in my heart?
I’m skimming through The Daily Dystopian
Where yesterday’s news is a reprint of tomorrow’s.
I’m sickened by this smallness of everyday people –
Their faded patchwork lives of unwashed bed sheets, scribbled tax forms,
Outdated coupons, lost photo albums, snagging zippers, cans of paint thinner,
Broken umbrellas and forgotten New York Times bestsellers.
I’m afraid to touch this quilted life stitched with threads of the mundane,
But I’m woven into its very fabric.
Hours and minutes closing in on me.
Time turns boa constrictor.
Is this the essence of despair?
Having dreams too big to squeeze into a too small reality?
Today’s arthritic, out of shape.
Tomorrow’s dripping blood, reaching for a bandage,
Unbegun yet already wounded.
(Is there a Balm in Gilead?)
It’s an agony of parenthesis,
The humming out of screams.
Do you hear it?
Or do you hum and scream it yourself?
It’s the song of a soul in searching.