he’s the everyman of fantasy island who should have been a tour guide to the dark ages but became a public servant after finishing high school working effortlessly for the state’s highway department which afforded him ample time to develop his theories on society for example he thoroughly rejects socialism can’t stand the thought of federalism so is a vehement supporter of our military police and first responders he’s often overheard rebuking welfare of any kind as he stands in line at the post office for his social security check he’s truly one of kind and swears if things don’t change soon he’s going to move to costa rica where he is certain that he’ll be able to practice and further develop his me-ism
once a vibrant nation now a host for aggressive parasitic personas that devour the salutary substance of freedom creeping and strangling until freedom’s death leaving hollow promises for our children
the fog
is thickest
at
the beginning
of the journey
like
a warm blanket
of
innocence
concealing
all the perils
that
may be there
so
fear
isn’t
felt
instead
the blindness
fosters
an excitement
for the trip
like
all of childhood
for
one sees
so many
paths
that may be taken
heightening
a sense
of
adventure
into
the unknown
all things then
are
possible
so
a path
is
chosen
and
the ascent
from the valley floor
begins
leaving behind
that childhood blanket
of
innocence
as
the foothills
are reached
the fog begins
to clear
still vision
is impaired
oh on occasion
a strong breeze
like
a sudden death
clears the path
defining for a moment
what lies ahead
however
it is only
a brief foresight
then the climb
continues
into the haze
of each day
laboring
to rise above the fog
hours like years
seem to pass
before the timberline
has been reached
then
eyes and vision
becomes aware
of
the dangers
on the trail
and
those all around
one marvels then
at the beauty of life
but
feels a sense
of sadness
for
not seeing
what was before
along the journey
but
the climb continues
to the tundra
the grandeur of the trees
now replaced
by barren earth
with only
low-to-ground plants
standing
like tombstones
now the path narrows
there is
no
turning back
no
fog
just
the trails
end
the edges of dreams are frayed from all those yesterdays such ragged edges have no chance of restoration nothing can be mended so they’ll just remain as free floating fragments in random moments of life’s memory
for a brief moment in time we believed the dream could come true that our words could save lives and change the course of history but after all these years we are still counting bodies from war and seeing women denied the rights to their own bodies love one another is still really just the lyrics of a song sang by a few folks sipping martinis at the club house a sentimental relic of college days days when some of us watched our friends being dragged off by the police some never the same person once returned from captivity some souls are perishable war rape and police batons can do that they say just as bullets can end life and when the white sheets are replaced by dark uniforms of blue or black the murders are made justifiable lynchings without ropes nothing has changed but once we had dreams
Read Between the Minds 