Head down, neck bent, shoulders small and stooped,
Hands held to the face as if in prayer.
Gazing into a void of empty dreams and promises,
Yet sagging under the crush of self-creation.
Heated, cooled, pampered; numb to the earth,
Never feeling the sun, touching the wind or straining,
To feel the rhythm of his body, in tune,
With the eternal pulse of the universe.
Dependent on the connection and the noise,
Sung directly into his brain through tiny tubes.
Exchanging reality for the siren call of false promises,
Made by an old and ancient god, now held new again.
Who will true this broken bolt,
Shift its flight to the path of creation?
How will God love his deceived and foolish child,
Who only wants itself, and knows not how to care?
NOTE: Edwin Markham is one of my favorite poets. This was written after reading The Man with the Hoe and wondering how it might look today.
Hands held to the face as if in prayer.
Gazing into a void of empty dreams and promises,
Yet sagging under the crush of self-creation.
Heated, cooled, pampered; numb to the earth,
Never feeling the sun, touching the wind or straining,
To feel the rhythm of his body, in tune,
With the eternal pulse of the universe.
Dependent on the connection and the noise,
Sung directly into his brain through tiny tubes.
Exchanging reality for the siren call of false promises,
Made by an old and ancient god, now held new again.
Who will true this broken bolt,
Shift its flight to the path of creation?
How will God love his deceived and foolish child,
Who only wants itself, and knows not how to care?
NOTE: Edwin Markham is one of my favorite poets. This was written after reading The Man with the Hoe and wondering how it might look today.
-
2
-
1
- Show all
