When do we ever get the time to write?
How many other things, too, shoved on a ravenous back-burner,
Listless and forgotten by us are
Submerged by the chatter of the immediate?
The present: a hoax as we rush towards futures
Instead of contemplating deep-seated desires.
In our language we grow accustomed to phrases suggesting failure:
"I once wanted to be...",
"When I was younger I dreamed of..."!
When did those visions vital, instinctive,
Become trivial?
Thus obliterated by a measured maturity
Society hands down, while run by those who think nought
Of following pure, unfettered, cardinal desires,
Of daring to be
Without hedging bets.
A maturity, handed down with instructions and uniforms
By those for whom norms in behaviour are weapons of power
Like chloroform before the mugging, handed down
To those who hide their best
For the sake of mortgages
For the sake of currency
And the sluggishness of accumulative wealth
Clutter we at once must die for and then leave.
All this in exchange for a chance
To be instinctive and live vigorously and, savoring the taste of life,
Take it with us.
