And as my past unfolded, it wrote my future.. |
By the Book 2-23-10 A young boy sat in a church pew Amidst friend and foe alike Listening to the preacher ramble He felt genuinely secure High on the Opium of People. A young girl was carried to The hospital, soaking wet And frostbite on her fingers. Her face was pale and Her knees were shaking As a young boy laid her down Gently on the doctor's stretcher His face was dry with tears And he grimaced As she attempted a faint smile. Once again sat the mere schoolboy Frightened in the waiting room Shaking hands clutching a single Passage from his worn bible He felt so empty, so cold As much if not more As the young girl fighting Off a storm of pneumonia But he firmly believed It would be alright His sense of reality diminished As his sanity finally went Nothing more then a moaning child Who couldn't bear to comprehend The near future- instead He took another dose Of the Opium of People. As the now older boy sat down his pen Amazed at his account of such Fictious reality, he never took Another dose of that lethal drug As god fled his life Or as far as he cared to foresee So did th Opium of People. That little girl died tonight As well as yesterday And assuredly tomorrow Those final moments of Such a fictious reality Etched into his mind Cutting deeper than any truth For, in all and in total, It was the truth.. Or as much a truth as He cared to comprehend. Just the face of a lost life He couldn't bear to recall So instead the boy Kept himself comfortable with His own words, poetry- Words of death whose only meaning Was to preserve whatever Life was left. Writing it had to be, Nothing else was strong enough For never again would he indulge On the Opium of People. * * * The boy laid in his bed On his side, arms clenching a pillow The same as every night- He can't bear change. And in clinging to the past Drifting through the present Careless of his future. He prays to deafened ears Every night before falling to An exhausted sleep That tonight, perhaps, May be his last- Truly a poem worth writing. He cared not for the outcome Of whatever outcome lay ahead Brandishing whatever mask Played along to his enjoyment Found amusement in how The minds of others worked So oblivious to an evergrowing Perfectly inconspicuous lie, He enjoyed seeing the bigger picture, Or so I thought. . . The old woman was taken to a hospital She couldn't care for herself At least not anymore. Her lovers brought her there As they watched her die inside Their shaking hands clutching At whatever made sense, The foolish family members High on the Opium of People. The boy watched it all Though from a third perspective Intrigued at the workings of The minds of people. Grandma would die, That was obvious But it was a well deserved rest She was ready to go Sore all over Alone in this world. It was no longer a matter of if Or a matter of how Simply a matter of when- The thought of life and death So close in our befuddled reality The thought made him ponder. Life is like a novel, they say Our life is lived in chapters Moments becoming forever Forever becoming mere seconds. Though we are not all writers We write our own story And the writers among us Use their story to create Miniature stories, inspiring Leagues of people, whether they realize it or not. An instant becomes forever. And that very same boy Was lying in his bed Arms clenched around a pillow The same as every night When he got the news. The woman had pneumonia- Dying ever so slowly Her life measured in weeks Or days Hours Minutes Seconds.. Instants, forever. And as the elder succumbed To her tiredness, fell asleep A dream she'd dream forever.. The daughter fell apart Perhaps she will become introverted Perhaps she will purge herself Of the Opium of People Perhaps she to will fall asleep tonight And never wake up, And what about the the rest. Her husband Their children Their grandchildren? An utter reality revealed itself To the fascinated, curious boy.. It was happening exactly as he wrote His fictious reality and Emotional scalpal Becoming true.. The boy waited it out Needed all the answers He was once so sure of As he watched his story unfold Right before his very eyes- Word for word, by the book Differant characters, without a title But a copy, none the less.. The thought intrigued the boy As the idea revealed itself to him At why he could never before Write the ending. ***credit to Karl Marx for his 'opium of the people' quote*** |