The glass is half-empty.
The glass is half-full.
So damn the glass.
It's shattered
like bits of confetti
scattered in a alley
where even weeds
barely grow.
We need a new metaphor.
The American dream
has run aground
yet the white whale
never was found.
Just a crazy pile
of fractured fantasies
that beguiled so many
generations like
opiate fiends who tried
to believe a mystic thing.
Sweet promises
made with tears.
Puritans thought that demons
roamed the forests.
Nightmares sneaking from
Primordial darkness
to their dreams.
So they lived with fear
and a need for shadows,
like children hiding
beneath a blanket while
creatures banged around
their beds.
They say all men are equal.
They say all men are free.
So why have we made
so many chains?
Even in the noontime,
we still live within
Plato's Cave.
Principles were the bonds
forged in blood.
Guilt and amnesia became the glue.
Theft and ignorance were threads
to hold the tattered
conflicts in check
with some vague ideal.
But the demons remained,
hiding in the mirror,
lurking by our side,
waiting for that moment
when, like a worn out bulb
the soul goes dim
and fear rushes in.
