a poem by Craig McGeady
Basking in the warmth of sentimentality, where the eyes
stretched eons beyond the belly and all that was seen
was designed to ignite the sweetest regions of the soul.
We have it, it’s there, only misused and abused, sullen
and confused by the words we festoon upon its girth,
dressing it in the limits of twine, fashioned with notions
of what’s yours and not mine, and what soon will be.
Determined to curb the splendor of our minds, the reach
of our thoughts, the visions we could craft from a willingness
to grind, so long as the end game was seen as worth it.
The end game is lost in a perpetual fog of attainable goals
for a few, a hardy, lucky few and you could be too as long
as you throw your weight into the game, playing by rules
you’ll never get to know and change with a winner’s whim.
We narrow our bands of acceptance, as we have narrowed our
dreams until the fight within us peters out, a desire
to shout at inaction is lost, tossed on all consuming fires.
Those fires should be illuminating, fueling a hunger for more,
not a wastrel’s hunger, where only the corrupt have enough,
but for the intangible, those moments that dance on our fingers,
leaving us panting and ranting for the sweetness of our souls.
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