Sunday, May 24, 2009

The Search

It starts with subtle wordplay,
a hallmark greeting
meant to send
in time of need, in compassion.

Life happens, it's messy-
all good intentions go out the window...

and alone in highball and hades
you face the demon of yourself
laced in miscontent;
aimed at nothing,
no target
no matter.

Points of time get concentric,
in wandering connivery,
you peek at the spectacle
of yourself.

A conspiring of words
in fanciful flux
submerged to plot
in clever and poise...

it circumvents the notion;
only the elderly demand
happy endings and just desserts.

A swelling ensues
in capricious capture;
the ghost in the graveyard
feels cheated
and bereft.

A vision of panoply
the hints of leave it to rest.

Compelled by the daimons
whose voices were silenced
in muffs of safe and privilege,
the words fumble and prattle
to the quiet depraved...
we listen
consumed in the message-
that if one fails 
we all do.

Gather round.

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