Wrote this a long time ago and forgot to post it. The word phantasmagoria just jumped out at me, both because of what it sounds like and what it means. Theatre, shadow shows, phantasms, illusions, both dreamlike and painfully real. In other words, humanity's struggle to grow beyond its violent origins, driven by pain and by vibrant imagination.



Deformed skeletons tap tap tap

Across the gridlock of my brain

Fledglings scream at the sun

All that's left is their wings

Flapping and flapping and never gaining flight

Text from eras we'd rather forget

Insist that violence is the only answer

The only thing that could ever quench

Our relentless hunger

Only when suffering reaches critical mass

Will we cease our pouting, and cry out

An invisible hand takes mine

A shivering reminder of what walks alone

Behind every stale, numb existence

Seeking shelter from murderers

Who hide inside


Threatened ideas drop and roll

Practicing combat inside every head

A butterfly in a cage, destined to die

Tongue extended to catch luscious nectar

Vision thirsty for color and movement

But the obscuring bars will drive it insane

Forced simplicity from traps we've built

Long after meadows and woods and caves

Where we painted the story of man

For an audience of none

Only when agony reaches its breaking point

Will we straighten our backs, and grow

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed