pursuit
The Seed
in what dark recesses of torture remain
exists a dreaded seed for us to obtain
to keep us sane and deliver us from evil
so goes the creed of an everlasting people
unending doubt resonates to be
impermanance rooted in an everlasting dream
scarcity of hope glimmering in dusk
prevention of fortune in a world of luck
forever told from stories past
eerily reminiscent of perpetual task
systems of new destroyed wisdom once known
for all apart of a world unsown
grimmace and malice plagued once more
in dire times that conjured vile scorn
but it was hope that was given once last chance
now grows a tree from the seed of our past
Pursuit of Happiness
Pursuing happiness in all its glory
has become dead, habitual satisfaction.
Scraping for a vein of sense,
the young man sees only himself—
in all his glory,
bloody and gory,
overwhelmed by lack of inspiration, hope,
chasing fallacies and the like,
tense,
he feels his mind
deleting itself.
Yet, everyone remains silent, still,
copasetic, unmovable in front of
dull gray light,
their concern is drained
and intelligence
paralyzed.
Undeniable masses cling to their screens of hope,
the new acceptable dope that all abuse, reuse,
despite the perpetual void tinted by numbness.
Lauding fictitious figures of whom fallacy engulfs,
our brethren grasp, gasping for new air,
lost for eternity without creativity in labyrinth.
The dream is gone,
placed on a bill.
Sensational sensations felt by all, but not
created by all.
Though wait,
a spark of reason, although ever so blasé,
everything accounts for nothing.
All you see, all you are is a fiction
of your own imaginative reality.
Authority takes control to grant security while
enveloping the dreams of the aspirer,
forever doubting idiosyncrasies
of which I embrace daily,
maybe,
‘tis the way of society,
doubtful as it stands,
embracing normality and screens of absence.
Absent mindedness is the social norm,
taught for decades.
Feel the cascades wash the world away,
the apocalypse is coming.
The end is nigh, belief is irrelevant.
For when he arrives,
finally,
it ends,
but not in fire
nor in flood,
in the mind,
our most feeble frailty.
-Ryan K. Fuller