Sentient Flatlining

Decision-making handed off like burdensome weights

from the crowd of shadows shuffling through life,

parading their hollow shells,

their work ethic without pulse,

their compassion void of a heartbeat.

Responsibilities pass to invisible hands,

their compassion but ghostly

in their machine-like living.

Principles non-existent

in their dull and tedious lust for more couch time,

more escape time,

anytime that might further immunize them

from actual breathing for life,

the kind that joyfully inhales and exhales,

life needing not a wake-up call

to abandon their crippling complacency of purpose.

But the eyes of the beleaguered glaze over screens and clocks,

hearing not their own heartbeat,

but that of others where the rhythm of being fully alive

is a cadence shadows know not of.

In this crowd of phantoms

they shuffle about,

avoiding the very light that suggests someone is there,

 wanting to disappear their vacuous silhouette of being

but know not how.

Might there be a way…

A focus of movement from we the conscious

that can deliver an influence

that might eradicate ghostly voices

echoing through empty halls,

their words spoken without purposeful intent,

promises made void of rectitude,

desperate vagary deferred to another’s whim?

Yes…

Out there are hands that once built dreams,

not idly waiting for direction,

for purpose,

an escape from the monotony of routine,

where hope was worth some tenacity,

a time when faith in themselves

was not as it is today,

a mere memory.

These are humans caught in a web,

tripping over their feet that once danced

but have reduced themselves one in a constant trudging,

their steps heavy with the weight of apathy,

shuffling aimlessly to the beat of indifference.

Can we not provide a spark to ignite within such people

 a rush of stimuli for change?

Don’t we want to see…

Eyes

 re-awakening beyond the screens?

Hearts

finding their own rhythm?

Hands

  anxiously reaching out to build once again?

Feet

Able to dance again?

Don’t many of us have a calling…

As poets and writers of diverse thought,

might there be unrealized rewards awaiting those of us

penning expressions embodied with hope,

where a stir of sincere conveyance

  might rouse the apathetic?

To awaken compassion from its slumber,

raise collapsed purpose from the ashes,

and motivate lifeless beings to discover life again,

is to help the Lemur-minded

turn away from the haunting cliff’s edge?