Survival
A carousel spins in the core of thought,
horses carved from bone and breath,
their eyes like shattered mirrors
reflecting the carnival of our contradictions.
We sip clouds through straws of glass,
tongues blistered by the sweetness of illusion,
while shadows braid themselves into fences,
no hinges, no locks, just the ache of belonging
fused into the vibration of air.
Ants march like black commas
punctuating the sentence of eternity,
each crumb a syllable of survival
while we scribble manifestos on sand,
knowing the tide edits without mercy.
And yet…
imagination hums like a skeleton key
hidden in the throat of silence,
while the cockroach,
armored oracle of dusk,
carries the gospel of decay in its lacquered shell.
It drinks from shadows,
feasts on the glue of forgotten dreams,
and dances in fallout like a priest of ruin,
its hymn a whisper:
Survival is not conquest,
but the art of becoming dust,
a sibling of eternity.
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Followed by the ultimate survivor, the cockroach. Brilliant.
In 1979, I asked my students in an MBA class to describe what might cause our demise. They had trouble thinking of any. But we eventually came up with about eight or nine. About half of them were caused by the action of business and industry. Hoping to instill upon them the need for restrictions on capitalism for the inherent tendency to march until there is nothing left to survive on except bloated money.
Ron