Along came a fine feline named Morris,
Lured by lilt of lascivious chorus;
He crouched inside the cage,
Appetite to assuage -
Patiently he purports to ignore us.
The saying goes,
“Money makes the world go round”
and yet as I step onto this adult plane
as the initiated guest that I am,
I have come to learn
how false these six words ring,
for it is not money that purports to be
the cause behind
the revolution we see,
but instead the devil we know too closely
the one we wantonly call Greed
and its want for more
need for more
be it the paper we value more than life,
or the power we strive to hold each time
lusting after what we don’t have
desiring that which is out of reach
twisting something made from purity
and it comes as no surprise
the strides some of us will allow it to go
to grasp a coveted seat
away from the many layers below
even if it means sacrificing
people along the way
bringing with it
a great deal of hurt and pain
as long as we get what we want in the end,
even if it means tarnishing
our last and only way to repent
letting go of a conscience
we no longer recognize,
until we are unable to see
through someone else’s eyes.
We who can appreciate the rose in its many splendored forms,
And can stand mesmerized by it's grace, its beauty and it's singular charm,
We who can't breathe in enough of its intoxicating scent,
And are inspired to provide it a home forever in our hearts and in our minds.
We who have immortalized it in song, in speech and in the words of our poets.
And given it star billing when romance is in the air.
Why then do some still leave it to be strangled slowly but surely by the
Ever grasping, ever tightening grip of those malicious creepers in our gardens,
That at first burrow and then like something out of a horror movie,
Rise ever so slowly til they find a beautiful rose to mercilessly crush an
Effort to gain the sunlight above.
How can those who purports a love affair with this flower beyond compare,
Stay the use of their own loving hands (that have held other roses of equal Beauty and laid them at at the feet of their own one true love),
In setting a single rose free from it's torment,
So it can bestow Love's rapture on another when again it chooses to bloom.
Days of longing, days alone,
hours and hours spent on you own
days of dreaming still alone
anxious just to hear the phone.
Nights are sleepless, endless too,
the rooster's call long overdue,
the noise unwelcome when first heard,
that slave to time, punctilious bird
with undue timing breaks the dream,
the one with hope to make it seem
much better, but purports to fake
a false pretender when you wake.
For what was there is still in view,
you dream and dream but never do.
Days of longing, days alone,
hours and hours spent on your own,
nights of waking, nights in thought,
hours and hours that come to nought.
AWAKE IN SLEEP
what is the perfect hour when consciousness
departs
and we leave the real world we suffer in our
hearts
darkness cascades and mocking temptation
smarts
the will of mind rules as obsessions acts their
parts
escape from awake and all that it purports
starts
euphoric last evasion from life’s perilous
darts
© Kim van Breda—June 2014
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