We don’t have jobs or careers,
if the pundits could be believed,
this equivocates to having no future,
or, something to that extent.
We aren’t as gorgeous or as glamorous,
as the other kids in the advertisement,
if they even exist,
you see, society’s dignity has fled,
and we are clueless as to where it went.
The brand new aesthetic,
it’s all we have left,
it’s the last light before evening-fall,
it’s what lies beyond the reflection,
along the river’s bed.
It’s a whistled tune,
whose name you can’t recall,
but permeates your living essence,
the scripture on the Wall,
a memory of the Fall.
It’s a hopeless romance,
a volte-face of your strongest convictions,
in the face of sentimentality for that which you never know and possibly never will.
It’s the smoke from the chimney,
that let’s you know that there are people still inside,
people by the fire, people who desire, people with flaws and virtues, people with dreams, and all of them alive.
It’s that audacity to hope,
when confronted with science and progress,
to dream someday that all your petty worries will be redressed.
It is the fantasy of reality,
and to recognize it as such,
to know that in one’s perception, one is God,
and the animus of such omnipotence is love.