remember what you used to think the world was like before you read of
Marx and of the revolution coming any day
consider how the slowly overwhelming sense of pessimism gripped your
every thought your every joy in every way
with the last of the remaining shreds of what you called idealism
withering to dust and words you cannot understand
all the lies and imprecision all the self-justification all the
romance the religion buried wholly in the sand
all the whiplash of the backlash as you brace yourself for yet another
period of emptiness and ride above it all
dislocated discombobulated lonely disassociated clinging on with
fingernails plastered to the wall
you can't even cry - can't even formulate it, adequately capture what
is moving what is stirring what is dying in your heart
it moves through and gone and nothing and all over and forever in this
wreckage of a landscape wrought for lovers and for art.
Voices In My Head by Wayne Myers