 Plastic World |
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Love replaced by wailings of the lonely dead Trying to survive in a pretend plastic world, no place to hide. How indeed does one get by when every effort spent must provide, what sometimes isn't enough for even a loaf of bread? Alas, just to have a few dollars for a taste of wine to forget the shock of losing all one has. . . the unattainable, unsatisfying job that only served to paralyze and crippled one's need to roam, oh, so little, the precious time, wasted, in endless begging for a dime. chased by debtors to the streets, with no place better than a cardboard box to call a home. Can it be true, dignity was stolen too? What a way to spend a life. Fear dwells where love belongs. Shamelessly, competed with and parted from labor's fruit, stolen away the last chance to harvest all that one is due. Alone and embittered by the struggle to hang on, be it right or wrong, to these belong all things that tarnish, rust and fade away, as does this rhyme, with the setting of the sun. No life at all, it is ironically, a timed existence. . . without time. No time to live, no time to share, no time to really enjoy the beingness of being, to dare to be in love's embracing flow, a place of existence where none go hungry, nor lack the comfort of a safe, warm, welcomed bed. this place seemingly a stranger to the world, lying dormant, as if dead, well concealed within the heart of man, like a rare perfect pearl trapped in the body of an oyster, a voice calling from within, forever begging to be shed. By Shirl A. Steward Written and copyright August 2, 1990 Image Credits: Lilies by friend, Toni Donelow Stewart
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