how do we know when the edge goes?
when does the cut become a bludgeon?
the blood may flow, but only beneath the skin
a bruise, a dull bump, a crushing blow
a lament for the blade
how will the point remain?
so far we’ve come, but is it?
dragging right, a slip to the side as we drop on down
hoping for ascendancy
all dressed up to go nowhere
shallow depths of hollowness fill the cluttered void
as we reach out between the desire for rest
and the scatterings from haunting past failures
failures that lure as the whore struts her stuff
whether repulsed or otherwise we look, we dwell,
voyeurism – the mall of the conscious numbed into unconscious
we struggle to break free
a gradual flow of shifting sand
a shudder, a jolt
the dirge begins,
hackneyed rhetoric comforting only the grotesquely comforted while the front rank dies
what is the footprint of this generation?
fully grown but completely immature
children of children
babes of the unborn sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to all
‘we played the flute yet you did, you did not dance;
we sang, sang the dirge of hope and you did, did not mourn’
one comes in abstinence, but the verdict is diabolical
the seed of man comes in celebration, the words of the witnesses shout out, ‘unacceptable!
… a glutton and a drunkard,
a cadre and friend of the untouchables!’ …
but wisdom is judged right by her fruits