exiled from the garden

we find ourselves awake and unshod
in the mythical nexus of multiple realities
choices unmade, words unsaid, lives unlived
every moment going by takes with it
another way unexplored, hidden things undiscovered
and we pretend not to notice as we distract ourselves
with shiny things; more pixels, less definition
our angels of light poised on windowsills
their sonorous banalities and ravenous appetites

lull us to restless sleep and nightmares of Eden.

the slithering darkness creeps undetected
into our idyllic memories of childhood
golden-tongued, highlighting converging roads.
the way not taken consumes the quiescent heart
the other life we should be living; the fool’s paradise.
we see it on magazine covers and television commercials
summer night log mansion, contemporary yet rustic
the roses in the vase: no thorns, the children sleeping sweetly
an effortless contentment – an untouched serenity lost forever

in the depths of pre-meditated serendipity, the serpent coils lustily.

we awake into sore throats and headaches, bad breath and cold.
in the parenthetical stream of fumbled words and missed exits.
we awake into the black death and the youthful reverie
in the fossilized innovation of found causes and charted ideals.
the cool of the day comes and goes and we thought we heard it;
a voice on the nectar-sweet wind asking “where are you?”
but we were too deep in unpaid bills, imagined tomorrows,
dreaded outcomes, shadows of better yesterdays,
frozen speculations and discarded echoes of lost horizons

every dying tree inducing the Tree and the juice of betrayal.

we awake and look at each other, disappointed, disenchanted.
the dream cannot be put into verbiage; it can‘t go into our exile.
and we as new gods are unable to conjure forgiveness at will;
it must be given from the killing sky withholding rain.
the cracked windshield forebodes the deadness of fertility.
and we are held together by a wild promise made naively
into an expected future that turned out to be a forked-tongued inference.
the voice on the wind returns and every slammed door blows open.
so the cool of the day brings with it the existential question

where are we? the asker answers by inquiry – we are being sought fiercely.



~ by shardsofeternity on May 12, 2010.

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