Wild Man's Cry -

Why
does he lament so, that silent man
hiding in those corners
we barely see?
And on seeing,
finding the visage of ourselves
too condemning to view,
why do we look away and mutter
obscenities to damn the differences
we cannot stand? Why? Who
is he to chill our souls so?

I Will tell you. I Will tell
why his appearance accuses - I will tell
you why we cannot stand
his face. He is the wild man.

He is the man
we once were, and the man
we long still to be.

He is the man
who heads to the left
where we turn to the right.

He is the man
who, through looking backwards, sees
the futures where we would look
sidewards preferring to pretend
to not see what is all
that we can see.

He is the man
who still howls, unabashedly,
at the moon when her gravity
overwhelms that of our own bodies - worse,
he does not just howl in the midnight hour
where none hear, he howls loud
and proud and public forcing our own words
on our ears.

He is the man
who turns his back on the world
we kill to posses, to consume, to rule; he is free
of the world we make ourselves
slaves of willingly.

He is the mad man
who says what we all think, but dare not,
lest the rest of us
condemn us
for the saying.

He is the man
who slips silent and naked
through midnight's wood without regard
to season, without regard to anything -
but the thoughts he drops along his way -
and the thoughts he picks up with each step;
mental burdocks
which fester forever
in the mind.

He weeps, he laments, he is wild - but wildness
does not cause his sorrow, You - with your heedless
and needless consumption of the last places
he can be, You and I are sorrow's cause,

He weeps
for the stars fading from sight, replaced
with inhuman light in the night
trapped by the human fogs.

Wildness is not why he cries, the dying
of wildness - that is why.

He will not survive
this existence, the relics, and the knowledge
making his life - judged quaint
if we are in kindly moods, judged
worse if we are not - something
to be disposed
of instead of
reminding.

He will not
survive unless we - like all other
extinct species - lock him in a zoo
to be safely
wild. Not wild.

To zoo him, to preserve
his anachronistic ways and thoughts -
should we be inclined - will hasten his death
and he weeps
for us.

He weeps
for our killing of all that he is, and he weeps
for the knowing what we refuse
to know.

We, killing him, kill
You and I and so -

The wild man -
he weeps.

_{(Jan 22, 2011 @ 03:54)}