Tired old carpet
This life is blind:
the eyes are the mind-
what you see is what you do;
disregarded are all the truths you ever knew.
There is no thought spared for the down-trodden individual
whom, despite its circumstances, is an enlightened intellectual.
Too despaired to change one’s own life-happenings,
another day is born, another day is killed;
many things are too much and you’ve had too much of many things.
Gone are the daybreaks when you were strong-willed,
enthused; easily amused;
not feeling so over-used;
when the sunrise didn’t appear oddly crude.
Hours upon hours deplete; pondered is the meaning of existence;
days turn into an obscure continuance;
this morrow is as distinct as the morrow
of yesterday and the morrow of tomorrow
and the morrow of the day after tomorrow
and the morrow of all days before and all days to follow.
A once-felt euphoria is twisted to be
an oily canvas painted with only nefarious occurrences to see
of the world/ cradle of humanity/ Earth/ mother planet.
I’m looking for a rocket into the heavens- where can I find it?
I’m looking for a craft and a crew to man it;
the mission: find the kind humans that once were here.
The blameless beginning is tortured into a vile, sickening smear.
A clean break is needed or a clean slate
for all of life, all of time at this rate.
I’m left, blissfully alone without the bliss;
many people and feelings are amiss.
The only thing familiar to me
the only useful, good and true thing that I can see
is on the floor,
it stretches from the wall by the window to the door:
I’m left with the companionship of a tired old carpet.
© Annalinde Louw 2004
I found the images using Google Images. Click them to follow the links.
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This piece was written on 6 October 2004