For Our Soft Wrists and Brittle Faces
How cruelly did Youth
Dare us to dream so frivolously,
That every burger we flipped,
Every broom we pushed—
Every petty tip waged to our once
Or still hungry pockets,
Dimmed our Brilliance into
Barely containable and feigned
Smiles, veiled behind which lay
Heaps of deferred aspirations?
And are We so hypnotized to confide
In this modern, fast-forward dreaming,
That the weight of Hammer
and Chisel became too much to bear,
Too much of a nuisance,
Unwilling burden
For our unwieldy wrists?
Or is it simply too much a shame
For our extensively kept faces?
.
Long ago, in a pre-man age
Championed by the gods and creators
Who lived under cosmic rifts and divides,
Among them, a tiny yet miraculous notion
Was suddenly conceived—
Like the cataclysm bringing forth
An all new Philosophy and Faith—
A race of thinking, civilized, even
Highly intellectual beings
Whose core conviction sang:
“We are born to Dream,
To Work, and Sweat
Not as obligated labor,
But as Our birthright
To keep our too often wandering
Souls Pure and Intact!”
.
We now sit in wonder,
“Who were They?
A People who proclaimed themselves
Through endless Shame
And its complementary Glory,
Mankind? ”
Particular Moments 