From stars far removed, in time and space but no more,
vast waves arrive, with powers still that stir the air to move us.

But bound by data to our screens, the blinding lights
and antic motions, we can’t hear the harmony. An inquisitor

raps against my walls of feigned indifference – insouciance,
I call it – my own fingers accuse me in my laptop speculation.

Sweet drinks and rhapsodies, sit-coms and journeys to far away islands
cannot support the foundations of our imaginary lives – we disappear.

The revelations I sought in the music of the arts cools:
the words have lost their meaning, the melodies
their natural syncopation, and my portrait its sunny disposition
– or haven’t you noticed? So content in your quest for happiness.

Beneath the bright, shiny songs of the angels we’ve adored,
whose voices rise and fall contained; whose scoured images
of perfection radiate with the plucked plumage of innocent birds,
our consumption of matter can not support this artifice of joy.

The vital signs of our purpose, once found in the heartbeat
of the living, the pulse of the old and the laughter of the young
is swallowed by their all around suffering; admit, we fear
the loss of our meaning – the inquisitor lurks inside our voice.

But from the edge of everything the once upon a time still
calls us, hear it, make time for a better world for all things!


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