The Truth of a threadbare thing called reality |
The hiss and pop of sycophantic frequencies, the new-speak glides through unseen wave lengths on the air, painting, with tongue-stroke, this current delusion, as we pass each other alive and vibrating in the night... Our dark scene, here on the city streets, as club upon club belch their offerings of culture onto the pavements, which penetrate, only in part, that semi-permeable membrane within each one's desired perception of self, allowing in only what aligns with his or her own cerebral paradigm. ...the heart rhythms communicating from soul to soul, as we move to and fro amidst each other, like shuttlecocks, producing weave for life's loom in time's tapestry, the brighter colors - our young, the threadbare - our old. ...but all, tightly held together unbeknownst, in fabric strength - as the humanity cloth. ...and worn, by one, we know not, groping in darkness - a destitute beggar, finding his way, with formaldehyde deadened finger tips, along icy cement stanchions, the underbelly of world's bridge, in a cold, lonely night a vision that is reality, Sterno blind and crave driven, seeking that next hit. END |