The Soapbox Is In Splinters

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allets's picture
Joined: 2012/08/19


Total chaos is the world's default

position, Babel is the only language

whenever too much neglect, squeezed

into one past, is the culprit.
What we see is not reachable

and so we dream by daylight as

compensation for under-acquisition.
A real touch is scary and makes
us leap as if a ghost had visited
to suddenly lay icy ideas upon flesh.
The world shambles onward
with and without us. The soap
box is in splinters, all the great

orators take a pass, and no one
sings the old songs like the old

groups anyway.
Pain is in the head and in limbs
waiting for recognition. If a glass
of water helps alleviate the hellishness
of breathing, will an entire pond 
cure the disease permanently?

We hold close all our illusions

where in which the elusive goal

poses as hope.