Lamentations - II

It ends
. . . . tonight. It ends
and where others look
for rejoicing
he finds only

Lamentation.

Tonight, where he feel fire's dry heat
soak old Bones soft in the cheery
popping crackles of Franklin's Dragon -
tomorrow becomes the methodic
ticking of one baseboard
in a long line of baseboard.

Tonight, where he stands naked
under night's mantle in the wind's
soothing touch to chase a boy's
demons away - while Luna watches,
sings, soft lullabies - tomorrow
those eyes traded for a thousand sets
of watchers possessing two thousand
scrabbling hands all screaming
discordant pleas for attention.

Tonight, where he strolls down brambled,
stubbled, paths pillared by cedar, carpeted
in pleasantly decaying leaf and needle, trading
midnight words with his brothers
the coughing heron and wise owl - tomorrow
halls of cedar become canyons of concrete
whose paths are asphalt and gravel echoing
not with wind or owl, not with heron or sleeping frog,
but the endless snarling growls of coffee can mufflers
and worse.

It ends
. . . . tonight. It ends
and where the wild man was
the civilized man must be. It ends
and that wild man, banished
back to his caverns, fears the slavery
drooling to reclaim him; fears
he may never break free again. Tonight
he finds only

Lamentation...

_{(Feb 22, 2011 @ 0:13)}