Hourglass
there is a going to waste that befalls us:
it is not in weight gained
it is not in vices taking toll—
it is not in the drag of having to work mostly
of there being more effort than reward,
of there being more strikes than hits—
it is not in debts, mortgages and bills nesting in heads
in family feuds over paper fetishes,
in the fronting of your marriage,
in the sharing your bed with a stranger
night after night after night—
in having no children,
being infertile or having had a miscarriage,
or having your children grow up,
the proceeding losing of touch—
it is not in the gaunt look of beauty once upon a time
and the lame attempt at keeping up face
of keeping up with a dress or with a watch—
it is not in wanting prestige but not getting it,
or acquiring it, but growing numb to it,
or in answering 'better than ever'—
it is not the let down of goals set and achieved
to then setting up new ones,
or in shattered dreams of shattering repetition
or the let down if they ever come true,
the futility of it all—
it is not the constraining of political maneuvers
inasmuch as it delivers people,
or in empowering you as you debase them—
it is not when spiritual paths dropp you where you left off,
when an awakening is only another way of being asleep,
perhaps more soundly—
it is not in the aging,
in memories warmer than reality,
in watching new generations go to waste alongside you,
in a grief, adjunct,
with everyone around you dying.
no, the befalling of waste comes
from the oxymoron of self-fulfillment,
and ignoring our rightful position,
and moving on nonchalant,
while trying to take everything down with you—
because of the inevitable fact
that it will be
that it is
that it was
all
in vain.
poem by Chris Jelens
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.