There Are Some...
by Odin Roark


The film land darkly,
where images of power and greed
in a Beverly Hills restaurant’s mirror
reflect only the shield defending the hidden person,
even as sounds of learned joy from reserved tables
drown out fear's sludge.

Such are the suits exiting the ostentatious office,
filled with the touch of the "deal" upon the shoulder,
unaware yet of captivity where future lonely nights
lead prematurely to inevitable doubts
destined to be anesthetized by any means.

Such disturbances of the darkness
are but the result of isolating success the unaware aspire to,
those innocent star gazers leaving behind the Nebraska cornfields beneath summer moonlight rapidly becoming the nonredeemable past.

Some learn…

But ignore virtue lost forever,
of integrity reduced to whatever it takes,
of dreams captured by the pimps of waste—
the masqueraders of any-time nightmares.

The real Hollywood
remembers moving-magic made accessible to everyone,
knew that empowering untapped imagination would always sell tickets,
where audiences trusted the cinematic connection.

There was a time…

When the theater’s darkened sanctuary for our creative dreams gave hope.

Now, it is a rapidly fading into indifference,
becoming remiss in its power to influence for positive behavior,
instead, evolving into self-serving propaganda of another kind.

Is control and power over our perception all it wishes to be,
a Shylock rendering but shackles for our imagination
as the few creative minds of integrity battle to survive?

Yes, there are some survivors in the making.