Just Another Runaway Idealist
My eyes shine when beauty
whispers through the star
struck blanket of night.
Ancient voices of the oppressed,
the downtrodden, revolutionaries,
mystics, the enlightened;
all saying that dreams can be grasped.
That this generation, now washed
out to sea, sinking as titan waves
strike its side, can be saved
from plunging into the abyss;
where lay other broken ships.
I will dance to another drum,
a rhythm of love and peace.
I will speak out… be heard…
Bleed until there is nothing left
because their beat
will never be as loud as my
final breath.
Or…
Will I fear the night?
Will darkness cover my eyes and
Will this blanket strangle and choke?
Maybe Poseidon’s grip was just to strong
and the currents of time will wash me out.
The great voices have been muffled,
throats slit by the winners in history;
those that script what we know.
We are slaves to their tune,
chained by their ideologies of truth.
Forced to dance on cracked and bleeding feet
and bow on broken knees.
The surfs of an iron fisted deity.
My soap box is in the coffee shop,
a philosopher with no real outlet or opinions
because the opposite of faith is fear.
I’m a godless man I guess...
Just another dead idealist,
hoping to be carved in stone so
my children can see my spirit lives on.
But that marble is cracked concrete;
shattered by the sledgehammer of
greater minds than I.
But I’ll always remember when I
stared at the stars and cried
because I was spoken to by
dreams of the night.
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