Our dreams, our thoughts With silent hands groping for light, Folding outward through the streets In hunt of a forged hope; What voice do they follow? What path calls to them; The bright toxic dust-spattered air, The founding ships, The bright soil aching for seed, The whimper of a child?
Do they seek the stolen, Warped, molten frame of glinting icons? There is no learning If they pursue the light to shine innocence. There is naught to glean In reaffirming glory’s ghost, Igniting the once tall beacon If they seek to blind over truth And not use its sturdy beam To reinforce new hope.
Have they crawled over garbage And corpses equally empty of love? While they search do they witness murder, Disease, and the awful voices Calling to them, “sing the anthem”, “pray for country”, “salute the flag”, “one idea”, “one god”? Have they freely begged, groveled, Pawing that they might mean something?
Our ideas, our thoughts With silent hands groping for light, Folding outward through the streets In pursuit of their own valor; The echo of self-fulfillment, The gaping breast of hubris. What voice do they follow? What path beckons them? Surely not the one that brings them back To who they were…
Our dreams, our thoughts
With silent hands groping for light,
Folding outward through the streets
In hunt of a forged hope;
What voice do they follow?
What path calls to them;
The bright toxic dust-spattered air,
The founding ships,
The bright soil aching for seed,
The whimper of a child?
Do they seek the stolen,
Warped, molten frame of glinting icons?
There is no learning
If they pursue the light to shine innocence.
There is naught to glean
In reaffirming glory’s ghost,
Igniting the once tall beacon
If they seek to blind over truth
And not use its sturdy beam
To reinforce new hope.
Have they crawled over garbage
And corpses equally empty of love?
While they search do they witness murder,
Disease, and the awful voices
Calling to them, “sing the anthem”,
“pray for country”, “salute the flag”,
“one idea”, “one god”?
Have they freely begged, groveled,
Pawing that they might mean something?
Our ideas, our thoughts
With silent hands groping for light,
Folding outward through the streets
In pursuit of their own valor;
The echo of self-fulfillment,
The gaping breast of hubris.
What voice do they follow?
What path beckons them?
Surely not the one that brings them back
To who they were…