Waving Goodbye

Dreams of past pleasures
cling suspended,
as if Stewie Griffin's magical time machine,
or a new century's "Yellow Submarine,"
can restore past illusions.

But above,

gravity's belfry,
the tone of desires
held fast by our eagerness to enjoin,
seduces our senses,
unlocks imagined doors
preciously bolted.

All the while,

many expect the return of
phony nirvana's yesteryear-reality,
believing they can continue to live
beneath the waves.

But forever awash

drifts the wreckage of rubbish-thought,
our attached history,
glyphs afloat Time's miscarriage of justice,
where the lie-forged autocrat is running out of time,
glowering at the submerged attention
deep below the whitecaps of misbegotten urges.

While some,

the stillborn of purpose
amid stagnant amniotic fluids
sink further,
resigned to be but dredge-worthy bottom feeders
wallowing in darkness seen only by synthetic light above.

The incorporeal forethought

confined by the blur-significance
pulses the swells atop the tsunamis awaiting deeper shifts,
understanding persistence may further delusional persuasion,

even as a man-made tempest

must ultimately wave goodbye.