like a struggling creature nailed to a body – frantic; trembling for escape.
It sings out, in the middle of the night.
Sends the sleeping mind dreams of lavish worlds with their indescribable nature
which churn within themselves incomprehensibly,
until the lights pitter forth from eastern horizons.
We meet ourselves inside these dreams.
Regretfully, with morning comes the redundant irritation
of worldly things, our useless construct; beating down with its
prattling quarrels and empty banter.
We cannot rest.
Hold up the body high and rise forth with might – we fight each other over simple matters!
Objectives are unclear, motivation is questionable and we all scuttle about
lost, nervous, and so utterly alone.
Toil and slave to feed a higher master – the machine operating underneath our existence functions so
and so discreetly that it is almost as if it does not exist at all.
It is almost as if we have always been this way,
like this is the purpose;
this is our end.
I walk through choked streets, lined with concrete and metal braces,
through alley ways, and muddy gutters in the pouring rain.
I can see them living in rows upon rows of identical boxes – stretched with the same canvas,
packaged all the same way.
I watch the streams moving in organized lines,
all the same direction, not one out of place.
Each single mask fits each single face perfectly with the utmost importance; it’s a brilliant game,
but I don’t want to play.
It grows very silent sometimes on these streets,
with everyone locked away in individual cells.
It appears so fragile; you might be able to reach out and touch
their sphere of reality,
one end of the street to the other, the beginning and end.
A deluded parade marching without a cause, conversation for nothing, efforts in vain,
forever supposing a higher design but finding themselves never having the time
to sit and muse over what’s divine and sublime.
They say the soul is old,
like a struggling creature nailed to the body;
I believe what they say.
For I’ve seen this before or grudgingly toiled in some other place
far, far away or perhaps even near here.
However, this makes no difference to me – for I have reached out to pierce the frame of reality,
tore fabrics aside, shredded the drapes and then let in the light.
I shook off the scales covering both of my eyes, and took in the answers – anything I could see,
I let it wash over me; for tonight I return to the deepest of sleeps
beyond narrow streets; my soul will whisk me away, far from the world and the trouble of day.