I sang with a Teradactyl
And I flew with the falcons
Somebody framed an elephant
In the zoo
And called it balance in action
Though all the children smiled
It was to who’s satisfaction?
Does the elephant
In the room
Know it’s a welcomed distraction?
…
Because our eight hour day is only the square root of our continuous, circular dreams -
As the light of the day pours in and we feed off of the liquid transitions of work into play, play into creation, creation into fantasy -
We grow
Still, buried early within the twisted salvation of experience, hides the rape of innocence. Seeking forgiveness, we investigate;
We are tortured
Are we both victim and at fault? Are we better served to suppress knowledge of understanding?
Regardless, we all age
And while all sixty-four squares are not destined for blood, each move may be toward a once-empty lot; or,
may be mapped as an integral fork in the frost-laden yellow wood, in the intrinsic cold war pinning good against evil -
Still, sacrifices will have to be made
Though it seems only one remains standing, it is necessary by then, that we have recognized the
simultaneous paltry and crucial natures of the mere battle we have fought -
Knowledge of free will remains snarled with duty
And as we rest in peace, counting backwards until sleep,
We dream about crescendo, but we have reached the down side
Of our peak.
- MIC THA POET
