Pinocchio-Choices

Once upon a time...

We forgot
what we were supposed to remember.
We remembered what wisdom regrets

should have been disregarded.

Still…

Today, the instinct to survive
keeps alive the will to remember

what living is all about,
even if by childish means.

Recall haunts us
while we forestall the pin prick,
choosing instead the frog awaiting to princify
the Cinderella forever waiting,
even as the stroke of midnight
remains a formidable foe.

For those in severe pain
the starlit sky never fades,
continually lighting childhood fantasies,
and unlike a simple sobering up,
stays determined to maintain false reality,
delusion's forever nirvana.

Some say…

Delusionists avoid the truth,
like an aging civilization of Pinocchios,
not trusting veracity making life real enough
to discern right from wrong,
love from hate.

Many miss hearing their own lies
and their noses grow
becoming their major telltale certainty
eventually obstructing their vision
blinding the discovery of who they unknowingly might be.

Far too many in our world obsesses
on a childhood phantasm
and others of us are rightfully frightened.

We are afraid…

Like fearing a Hollywood monster,
we huddle together beneath false bravery's tinsel shells,
hide about the world en masse,
never accepting how like an evil toymaker might meld a touch,
generating a false warmth's innocence,
sealing permanent man’s acquiescence to illusory capture,
once independent.

Yet…

We still wander about
having forged our shields such
that understanding one another
has become a fantasy of another kind.

We remain secretly terrified…

Like a free-fall planet of fairytale characters,
terror playing the puppet master,
holding tight the strings,
dreading courage might overcome
the paralyzing loneliness.

Still…

We can only panic into escapism,
never embracing fright
as a friendly awareness.

Might it be…

The creative spirit continues reflecting life's experience.
that metaphoric balance of thought
where dreams walk beside trepidation
knowing alarm be but the careful hand of caution,
reminding us life unfolds but once,
filling pages with experience
that can't be edited or rewritten,
becoming one’s personal book?

THE book?

OUR book?

What might end the story
is trusting we could stop the lying
read truthfully the text of ourselves
and let the conscience of our being
teach us something,

be our guide.

For like a child
clinging to a favorite fairytale,
our adult side also knows down deep,
that which seems so unreal
might be made to Be
if we'll be but thoughtful,

believe in goodness,

and know the Geppetto-kindness

is real for those who choose to believe

in the personification of truth.

Yes…

How carve we?