Fevered Mind

A poem by Sydney Stone. I do not own the image.

***

Eyes grow vacant as they talk,

Once more of the tightrope that we walk,

‘Pon our little, blighted rock,

Knowing that if we could, from it we’d flock.

In our clans, and in our droves,

To save our heads from yawning stoves,

Seeking further, sheltered groves,

With their rumored, resource treasure troves.

If, as we claim, this world’s unfit,

Perhaps we should seek out another shoe that fits,

To take us down pathways dimly lit,

To find a hilltop upon which to sit.

Perhaps we’ll find a better view,

Or else fall in with a tighter crew,

Reconcile with the one who from us flew,

Or find some inner peace in lieu.

Anything is better than to grovel,

In our self-made, rotted hovels,

We could, of course, just grab a shovel,

Or else step from doorways that ‘round us crumble.

I know which choice I’d like to make,

Though perhaps not which path to take,

But, in the end, we all know what’s at stake,

If we continue dining on this poisoned cake.