Saturday, April 2, 2011

The Healing Gift

A blockade has been created,
At each ends of the street men await answers,
Police, like statues, incapable of speech,

They do not flinch; they show no signs of humanity,
They dissolve any illusion that within them, shreds of decency exists,

Sympathetic offerings are all we wish delivered

The horses remain throughout the night,
The mist from the underworld,

Rises through the openings,

That workmen use to reach below,
Yet one cannot ignore that fate laced whim,

Passing through your mind,
You notice how quiet the street is tonight,

You might even comment on how surreal,
But regardless if you are a born and raised city child,

Or a closet dwelling pastoral adorer,
You will, for the first time in remembrance,

Recall the pleasantry you experience in this one extended moment,
As if you and your belongings were transported, swallowed whole,

And to this journey you find magical elements,
The way your food tastes when the body is at rest,

The way your hearing is more in tune, rather than focusing upon a variant of voices,
But the thing you will rue the most, when all this is taken away,

Will you ever again truly enjoy the rich textures hidden beneath simplicity, covering your sighs

No comments:

Post a Comment