A Scene, Again
The road, of course.
Always the road,
stretched thin
under my feet,
a scene you’ve read
a thousand times.
No songbirds, no whispering clouds;
golden leaves? Please.
Nothing to meet
the expectations
we pretend we don’t have.
But we do.
We always do.
Cracked pavement.
Worn out, scarred,
It’s not a metaphor,
but maybe it is.
Do they matter?
Concrete, flashing lights, chaos;
the city hits like a slap,
a dystopian page
torn wide open,
living the plot twist now.
The dog, ribs like
a skeletal map,
lying there,
a vein of the earth.
Does it signify something?
Or is it merely
a prop in a narrative?
As Emerson said,
“Carry beauty within you.”
Tried, and packed it
carefully,
but…
Each step, heavier
than the last,
for a hollow soul,
fueled by fear,
not much else.
A headwind,
sure, let’s call it that,
pushing back
like it’s supposed to.
And the mind,
bloated with
second-hand knowledge,
books piled up
like a fortress,
but the foundation?
Untouched by the dirt
of real life.
But go ahead,
call masses fools.
It’s easier that way.
Enlightenment?
Just a punchline,
a cosmic joke,
served cold by fate.
The breath you claim
as yours,
does it taste like
its own?
Or some temporary fabrication,
words you never lived,
emotions long dried
up in ink.
Enlightenment?
Passed down by the greats,
now just a meme.
Isn’t it ironic?
