© B. Luceigh, 5/21/17
break meaning into mean,
disorder into o-r-r-i-d-s-d-e,
crashing, blasting, spewing debris of nonsense,
rather than an easy conversation
between slow loss
and advancing adjustment.
lies, exaggerations, blame, distractions
in misguided efforts to revive life
into senses attuned to dead devices.
What direction do I go
without a we of Truth to align us?
Will anyone look at my existence,
as I long to look at theirs,
lift their eyes a moment
from menus of illusions
offering choices to secure deluded security?
Must I swim alone in this muck,
each stroke pulling me into uncertainty,
following only a primitive instinct
left untouched by chaos,
realizing Beauty is still present
behind the obscurities of current times
that rush into the past?
Am I willing to expose Beauty
as the connector of a new order?