Calling ourselves " alive", while being encased in ice Easter bourbon in sazcarine,
We hold our own souls’of the selves hostage:
Refining the refrigerator-like confinement of actor feed a motions-
While parsimoniously pretending to be brave, proud, glad, and just plain
Covering our lives and our lies is in perfectly-plastic, well-warmed, insulated boxes-(called homes)-
We relish and Cherish the suffering of others, enjoying their phosphorescent pain.
It has, after all, then made perfectly proper by the television sponsors,
Mountains of god-like, (they think), mercenary inclemency, in and of themselves.
We attach ourselves blindly to the screen screaming on the wall—
Whil’st outside November is marching busily down the road to complete madness.
The whistling wind and shivers and shutters, burying utterances of tears.
Skittering leafs scanner, day and seeing lightly and Riley along the darkening walkways.
Funeral “homes” provide “dignity and compassion”-
Along with great wealth two spiritually-challenged, splendidly-suited purveyors of unctuous emptiness.
Under the streets, and all along the walls of our cities, the homeless—
Viewed to be as “intrlopers” in “our world”:
Hover and shiver around oil drums, and shelter their children in cardboard boxes-
Warming themselves was simply the mere thought of 34 degrees:
Because, when the thermometer falls to this point, they will be permitted to sleep alone cots, under blankets, in a shelter.
All of “civilization” is whirling and spiraling down to a place of no return.
We no longer understand the concept of love.
Pray for much more than just snow.
Note: the exact figure of 34 degrees was obtained from the T.V. Series Touched by an Angel, specifically this segment: There But For The Grace of God.
originally published in “Sunday at Four”