We cloak our intentions
with garments woven from
a world that cares only about self.
Colors of explicit and electric
bending the mind’s eye to unrelenting
exposure, call us to walk
around deadened emotionally naked
to attain feelings void of pain.
In a neon sear, tattooed ink
has covered the lesions of
self inflicted scarring.
Where does it end? We cry out for
relief, for a Savior, a new world order
an immediate fix for the immediate gratification
we have cultivated in shallow furrows of
over used soil.
Garments of fibers grown from reconstructed genes, barely worn,
as techno seclusion sequestered in open forum
leeches our future, our hope.
How can a rose survive…this?
questions and plea