i.
Exiled from life in fanatical desperation
to maintain the hell-world — I sing
the swan song of living joy.
I watch, every waking day, the droves
who deserve better — and the drones
who deserve nothing at all.
The steps along this way are the same
as those who suffered the march
through a different paradigm
of chiseling away at the block laid atop them.
There are those born into that struggle —
and those born into imposing it.
A glance of the face of the learned one
sinking into the dismay of realization
tells me that things are not well:—
It could tell of wicked cupidity,
of the normal evils of life.
It could tell of birds nesting
beside the lynched scapegoats
and regular market functions
staged during total collapse.
It could tell of age-old ends of the world . . .
but it tells of the worst vital decline.
Of a severance between life & humanity.
As if a godless covenant had been dropped,
one that enriches the works of good hearts;
one that is sustained by a balanced nature,
and this balance finds itself under siege.
O good fight, become better soon
than we endure you now. Be narrow
enough to center our sights.
Be plain enough to tell our way.
All seek through grand certainties,
defined paths, the selfsame resolution
that lies bare, innate in life untamed.
A different line of considerations
is more than imminent to our wellness.
Grand announcements from cloaked sources
seemingly don the office that determines
what the chain of days are to be;
what the breadth of energy is to be sapped
for the sterile bases of the world economy.
Somehow they run to trust them.
They make us ashamed to be human,
running face-first into the suite of delusions.
The church, the bible, the cross.
These are tools for facilitating
the actual religion of economy at play.
Just as life untamed, life tamed
into insanity lies bare its drive.
The interwoven stations of accumulating,
tallying and monopolizing have rendered
the worst out of us; the failure of heart;
the collapse of the truly critical mind.
The fair bird that came last in spring
has flown away to rekindle in the moon.
Our statues, our castles, our holy texts
have not made up for our blood, our tears.
The wings of joy abandon us . . . and rightly so.
ii.
Now we lift a broken hearted head
to the rising stars with candle lit.
The aching wonder of being a child
bleeds into the present point in life.
All the sense we accumulated since:
The undying drive to be who we are.
The air, the sky, the openness
of space on Earth signals both calm
and determination. Let it hang there . . .
be at ease this moment.
Be in the tempered light
that warms the hands before directing
the life your vital keeper gave.
The breath we draw is the promise
gifted to us, knowingly or not,
by those who spawned and fostered us.
All you allow in you to define you
is suspended in your pallet to apply
at the whim of your being alive.
Where to with this knowledge?
How to traverse the terrible landscape?
We simply become the new age.
We are not beholden to the morals
intended to destroy our criticality;
We do not halt our lives
for the feelings and demands of morons.
This is the simple mode of doing things.
The age of apologizing to fundamentalists
dies with the words I write. The age
of denying who our hearts tell that we are
burns into ash and is blown away by a gust
made by the stampede of the free.
I seek to make good sustenance
from bitter embraces of the edge:
We cannot stand upon our mounts
without knowing the valley below.
We cannot raise a tattered flag
without stitching the rags of our history
into the proud tapestry of vital resurrection,
of a new rise toward self-determination.
Let the hell-world be made gone once and for all,
and the wings of joy evolved back in their place.
Poetry · Contribution by Wulfinna · Original work