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Nocturnes: Marksmen, Marionettes Of Metaphor
When all believed that none possessed a soul,
we felt, for the first time, invisible
strings on us all as they began to pull:
proof of a power more metaphysical
than we wished. Graceful motion turns to jerks,
the once limber and lithe shambles and lurks,
who had been smooth and upright limps or leans;
the beautiful we hoped to have demeans.
We hoarsely whisper what we loudly said,
ages ago. Neither alive nor dead,
we dwell in deserts monochromed with red;
strange piles of stones (like we once thought of Mars);
the sky dusk, always, with sparse, sputtering stars.
A decade for these words, told in privation:
religion is no opiate for this
anguish in agonized excruciation.
The marks we make are mostly scrawled amiss
with fingerips crimsoned and scabbed. The scars
and misery that we, with proud elation,
inflicted in our bid to change the world
are here avenged a thousand-fold. Unfurled,
our red flags droop; each gold sickle and hammer
achieved only an infinite damnation---
within which we weep, whimper, choke, and stammer.
