It is not the young men
Distard and disconnect
The chronicler's memory dissect
But some more corporate
And deeper in the grain
As roots of more coming pain.
Cutting through debris
Of postmortem reactions
To hear the high pitch tremors
Of blood chilling screams
Splashing from hopeless lungs
Into spatters of blood
Collecting in the gruesome caricatures
Littered upon the floor
I come face to face with the dread
Of why ... will this happen again?
For who are we
What have become that we do not want to be
And do not know we are
How are we so inflated
To a drivel
Of pursuit
In the large ambiguity of desire?
And children with no moral compass
Denied a feast of value
In their learning
Finds pleasure in the fast
Of belonging.
Only a instinct hoard us together
We are broken
In the hard solitude
Of technological isolation
That entertains
Only an individuality.
I have seen the material dungeon
Sense and sensibility rotting in chain
Hear the children crying
In the selfish wilderness
And the wasteland
Answers Columbine, Columbine.
defy gravity,
defy gravity,
claim your slip,
secured by unseen spirits
many times, your journeys have fed asphalt to your
dreams, lifting highways above simple paths.....
now, the end has been seen many years before,
small children know!
they look at you and smile
small children know........
they look at you and smile
only pushcarts burdened with lies,
drown in tears.....
ice cream taken in small amounts
is as close as I will get,
close,
as I
will get
Count the days as they have passed,
aging in the looking glass,
string the tree with colored lights,
another Christmas burning bright.
Heirloom ornaments handed down,
pieces of the past are bound,
try to pass the history on,
memories like a mournful song.
Welsh and Celtic is our blood,
through our history memories flood,
dream the dreams in ancient tongues,
fluently the lyrics sung.
Indigo children we have bourne,
though the past they do not mourn,
their eyes and spirits are so clear,
they face the future without fear.
They who see more than we can,
advance the souls of mortal man,
for twenty-twelve is the date,
set by Mayans for our fate.
It's said the veil is growing thin,
a new dimension will begin,
these children called the Indigo blue,
may save the souls of me and you.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.