When I was a younger boy than I am today,
Still learning how to learn,
I was stuck in a desert,
Of familiarity and foliage alike,.
Struggling to grasp at something or someone to hold onto,
To help hold me in place,
A home where the wind wouldn’t sweep me away,
In the turn of a Texas second.
But there were no homes to be found on a forever flat horizon;
Just abandoned crypts,
Filled to the brim with empty rooms,
Constantly conditioning the air,
To desiccate the last drop of water,
So that life might not accidentally spring forth.
They built bunkers under their tombs,
To live their life in caves of their own construction,
So that they might one day die a deathless death,
Leaving behind their mausoleums,
Reminding those who were left behind,
Of their loss.
When I tried to remind the cave-people,
That the winds are always going to blow,
Tearing away the dirt, bit by bit,
Until their caves are uncovered,
Causing them to dig deeper,
Repeating the past anytime the present isn’t palletable.
But, I tried pleading with them,
Without any tree line,
Well-rooted and purposeful,
(Which is to say of and for the living)
They’d be digging their entire lives,
Just so their children might dig a bit farther.
My protests,
Bottlenecked by the singularity of my voice,
Were never going to be a match for the drone of,
Dozens of drills in unison,
Searching for the secret of yesterday,
In service of tomorrow.
Post-Neology 