Ruins of Spirit


Can we ever escape
that which we alone create,
but often choose to ignore?

Like the mismatched rocks of a cairn,
random choice not being an option
complimenting shapes and sizes
but a purpose to make up one's balance,
one’s direction,
one’s harmony,
one’s effort to mean something.

Might there be a need for honesty of intent?

Yet some…

Like aspiring high rise urban dwellers
living a rock steel and glass stacked totem life,
amassing mismatched building blocks,
delusional impressions of what matters,
what makes their power of incestuous business success real.

Do they stand atop their penthouses and wonder?

Might they be destined to realize a primeval demise,
like a surreal incarnation atop American life’s indigenous modified scaffold,
where ghostly surreal burial rites and sacred ruins
of the country’s nomadic tribes
wait to manifest a possible revelation?

One might ask…

Can primitive wisdom ever penetrate assumed urban importance
before the inverted vortex of a balance that might tumble,
consuming itself atop the rising poisonous funnel of ignorance,
distilling the wrongs of misbegotten power
become but sand kernels of infinity's hourglass?

Such might be the providence of man's innate totems,
the unique building blocks that make us the species we are,
while stealthily so many try desperately to become a species they are not.

Perhaps the Twin Ears monument will send its historic vibrations
to those who need to consider…