We live in a time of disorder
Where every feeling has been
devalued
Like tarnished gold in the back
Of a cluttered closet with a door
That has warped from a long rain
And the water pooled along the
floor
Soaking old diaries till the ink
bleeds,
Like tears smudging every page.
It is a time of disorder
As people lumber through life
As sullen movie-fried zombies
Staggering in shock and stupor
In a panic search for some
Dim memory of passing joy.
Perhaps forgotten love or
Fleeting glimpses of vague
Passions that once seemed real
Like an old aching bone
Until a terrible shadow stirred.
A rude awakening that was neither
Real nor dream but some poor
Land strangely in between.
Neither act nor shadow,
Neither life nor dream.
For we live in a tide of disorder
And the old bearded man
In the junk yard screams
That the dialectic is not a dream.
More a burden, it sometimes seems.
Never ending, sight unseen,
Relentless and unbending.
More remote than any star.
More relentless than any sea.
