we are from the beginning confined to within the lines from kindergarten until we are unceremoniously covered with dirt and placed into neat rows with the occasional rebel stuffed into a ceramic jar a jar to be placed upon the shelf along with the other knickknacks collections of framed photos or mementos from cruise ships none the less we are still confined to stay within the predefined borders of existence attempts to escape through meditation or encampment at some wall to wall walden pond merely represents movement to another part of life’s venn diagram it seems different but one’s thoughts are still within the cramped space of musings of others unable to truly be independent
can your recall their names those people you called lifelong friends can you recall their face their voice the warmness of their touch oh it’s not a crime if you can’t but it’s a reminder you will be forgotten
been rooted in the broken promises of freedom for over two hundred years so it should be of no surprise that we have grown roughened in our views of the future and misshapen in our attitudes for hope and justice in this nation oh when we were young we could easily bend and not break when the winds of ignorance and hate forced us toward the ground then we would rebound and once again grasp at the sky but now days we refuse to bend nor do we have to we have an outside that has grown hardened and an inside having knotty memories of the pain of our lifetimes we have grown and survived like african mahogany
by just looking at it one might draw some negative conclusions for the case is well worn it’s wooden shell shows its age and how hard it’s been handled over the years some parts are tarnished resembling the color of gray hair other parts are dented and i doubt work anymore but when you look inside it still maintains its youthful beauty my old kaleidoscope
i am a fading portrait each friend’s death dims a part of who i am and each death within the family makes faint a portion of who i was soon i will have no eyes to see into tomorrow
like staring at stars we seek to find familiar patterns of understanding for the amorphous hate residing in the heart of this nation we conjure up through our incantations of the sacred words we the people the mythical spirits of freedom and morality only to hear the despairing echo of our own voices voices resonating in the emptiness of each day yet we continue our self-hypnotic chants as if the very words can charge the chaotic into a form we can understand and thus change but like the centuries of incurable believers before us our invocations are all for naught