why?
floating on the force
the people pass below
plastic-casted alabaster,
bronze, ebon, ruddied red
yellow - shaded differently
soon to be revealed as the same
and the child on the cloud's cumuli
stands and throws with glee, altitude armfuls
of the sweet bread of change, of peace,
of contentment - watching breathless the whole of it-
waiting -
yet the glory is squandered
and the small mind sent spinning
senseless at the graphic ennui of a
collective coalesced massive shrugged shoulder
and the child falling back into a clouded center
wonders at the swirl of their complicit avoidable
doomed dogma of disparate desperate disaster
Why?
as their cries of chaos tear tender ears
as the bread is trampled into mud, and dust,
destroyed under heedless raging restless feet -
that sweet bountiful bread ripped - raped
to ravaged refuse in their mindless war of "Mine"
and the child wonders - again and again and still -
Why?
Why did they not rise in collective claim
and catch the easy soft showered peace
Why did they trade the joyful common
language of laughter for separate screams
when but for swallowed mouthfuls of manna
they could have shimmered -
Oh how they could have shimmered
within the mystic magic melting of
Mine into Ours - and the child empty handed now
peeks over the edge of above to below - as a single
trembled tear gathers strength to fall
