Wednesday, November 14, 2012

An Analysis of the Human Condition - Part I


Of Broken Dreams


I am witness to the cold, stone statue
Shedding a miraculous tear
On behalf of an estranged world,
Amidst sacred voices that speak not,
And where fear breathes its last
To the melancholy beat of nothingness.
The people made the choice, I say,
Of death and of life, drawing lots,
Unmindful of the complaints of the dead.
The expectation of a bitter kiss
And at some point thirty pieces returned,
That's all that can be hoped for,
Or would you rather the stench
Of those numbered among the living?
I am no Iscariot; I resent the comparison.
But I would happily point Him out, with a kiss;
I would, and without the mawkish guilt.
So here we are planting dainty illusions
And reaping mil-dewed despair,
Sowing calculated and thought-out hope
And harvesting withered promises
In a parched, unyielding, and bitter land,
Where the cry of the oppressed is eviscerated
And justice is merely an inconvenience.
And so continues the unabated boredom,
Without compensation for carrying crosses.

You misunderstand me, as usual;
I am no prophet of doom; it's unfashionable.
I shed the Lamb's clothing ages ago.
Or was it Sheep's clothing? Perfidious.
They are still there in my pocket,
Those dismantled dreams undreamt,
The broken remains of hope long lost
And trapped beneath a sordid gravestone
From which not even a tear can flow.
I struck it twice with a rod -- and nothing.
And yet we persist, clinging, holding on,
Etherized by a moment's ephemeral pleasure
Only to be reawakened again, all too soon, to life.
Shall we then raise misguided prayers from ashes?
Shall we build sepulchers from broken-down churches?
O lasting and abiding city, we seek thee,
There in the cold earth beneath, we seek thee,
Where nought discriminates, where exists
Neither young or old, rich nor poor,
Uncomely nor beautiful, ignorant nor wise,
The hopeful nor the hopeless, the good nor the evil,
But only the hapless race of humanity,
Who for all its faults, desires to be loved still.
And so, be kind to the dead, O Son of Man,
Awake us not, but let us sleep;
We beseech Thee, let us sleep.

By
Ric Couchman
August Twentyfirst