Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Aftertaste of Explanations

The machine of mind
          hums brighter now
I cannot hear its
          high-pitched drill.

My prayers are automatic now
          - the clock, the keys, the glass.

Our comfort God asks nothing but
          to serve It like a woman
And drop the petals of my soul
          upon Its black faux-metal
Without a trace of will or
          pause of doubt.

I finger news,
          thumb-wrestle sports,
                    push pictures for the weather -
As if I was betrayed by trees and grass
          for turning yellow.

The older Gods said "shh" inside
          vast honeycombs of texts,
For knowledge was a secret then,
          a sacred thing that blessed.
Now all that humans grasp and know
          is just one more addictive pull
To keep the wolves away
          outside the fire line.

No limit on how
          empty all this
                    striving for the
                                   facts
                                             can be.
The truth
          - the me that I've abandoned
          for fear I'll be abandoned -
is undisturbed.