Living like nothing more than paper cut outs, like tin men wandering the empty corridors of life, we seek escape from the hallow echos in our chests. Programmed and executed, we pour through eons of fragments of inherited memories. All a haunting and dim reflection of forgotten promises. Are you truly there?
Why is this distance fixed? Why does thirst continue, drop by drop, toward madness in an ever spinning whirlpool of discontent? Why does hunger gnaw away at the souls of those who simply want fulfillment? Nibbling, bite by bite in search of morsels that sustain rather than catalyze discontent.
With eyes so dim, could I recognize true life if it greeted me? Should it approach me as a long lost, dear friend, would I not recoil with innate fear of yet another attack? Can I not help but see another Trojan horse sent to infiltrate my soft underbelly? This Pavlovian response long engrained in my character, I live but to subsist behind barriers, obstacles and impediments. How ironic and maddening the continual roadblocks which cause my feet to stumble.
Do you seek me? Rumors sprinkle like rain of love that changes. Will tenderness and warmth ever be granted to the barren? To those who live life dead, could the rumored horizon of an ever rising sun be found? Sweet charity and sympathy to be born anew in the breast of the dead. Be it fantasy or madness, we stagger toward hope. Magnetized and pulled, we drift on but inside our walled in souls, we are forbidden to dock.
Endlessly, we wander, dawdle and bob. Like tin men snipped from discarded sheets, we want to know why creation fashioned this shape. Ever onward we slide. Ever forward we follow the multitudinously worn path. Always we trudge, until we collapse and tread no more.
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