Untitled

Untitled

Broken,

Like the empty shells of lobsters in some tortuous god’s oblivion,

He makes his way through the streets of an almost living city-

Its streets strewn with the detritus of plastic lives,

Broken toys of a society whose soul lived in its wallet,

Only to find out that there was nothing gained.

His mind reeling from the sundered colors of artificial joy,

He leaves behind him a wake of things unchanged,

Not seeing,

Not knowing,

Not accepting,

Not being.

He hasn’t been here.

He hasn’t improved, he hasn’t destroyed,

He hasn’t adjusted; he hasn’t lived in this reality:

He is a ship that collects no barnacles,

A soul concocted of grease and silicon,

He slips away like mercury,

Leaving not a molecule to speak of his passing.

He hasn’t been here.

Unscented by any dog, unstung by any insect,

He blunders by building after building until,

Weary with the whistling loneliness,

He falls into a pile of twisted limbs and heaving chest –

Lost,

Blind,

Gritting his teeth against the cold of a world gone dead.

His mind cannot accept, and he moans,

Affirming his own existence.

Finally, he sleeps,

Protecting his faculty against the vacuum.

When he awakes,

He finds a kitten curled against his stomach,

Purring of its contentment,

Its solace in the comfort of companionship.

They live.

Cliff Lake 5/30/1994

CliffSongs