I am lost
You are lost
We are lost
in a crowd of one
Our pretty words
rattle the wind we blow.
I am lost
You are lost
We are lost
All are cycles,
but am I a cycle?
That bird.
That bird repeats itself
It’s not the same bird as that bird in my youth,
is it?
It surely looks the same and pauses to look at me
the same.
Is he singing,
“Is that the same person?”
“Is that the same person?”
“Is that the same person?”
I danced on his grave
The dance of the living death
So little time left
For any of us
Left behind
No cause
No purpose
So I danced
It seemed like the thing to do
It felt right
Go away
Just leave
From under the ground
Deep below
In a wooden box
The protest came
I called out to myself
As I danced
It seemed like the thing to do
I felt no pain
No guilt
Just the ongoing
Fullness of revenge running out
Pointless revenge
Spiritual self-immolation
Not a part of the whole
An observer
Separate from the rest
Outside of myself
Watching me as I danced
Unfulfilled
A witness to futility
Interaction, contraction, reaction
Shooting craps again and again
Until it ends
And the Reaper grins
At our naïve failure to live for something
Other than ourselves
Other than to be
And to be satisfied with being
So we dance
Pretending we have meaning
Giving us the courage to believe we have something
Beyond one another
Suddenly it’s 69 again
At some grungy bar in Minneapolis
CS&N are screaming
Rejoice!
We have no choice
But to carry on
Now it is sampling
Then it was stealing
Either way, the truth still works
Ron Olsen is a veteran cross-platform journalist based in Los Angeles, California, United States.……Ron Olsen at Wiki
He writes, “I’m a semi-retired Peabody Award winning journalist who now writes
essays and an occasional poem.”