The Critical Eye


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Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Would They Come?

As you toil through your days, knee deep in slop
Surrounded by the filth of others decay
their decomposing ways
As you flick your pen about
in dutiful disdain,
playing your part in life's play as if a marionette on display
Do you pause to wonder,
Would they come?
As you meander about, a busy little bee
flitting here and there
on errands of glee, a sumptuous feast of endless routine
Yes that report is done, and no that needs to be redone
Seemingly content and yet ever so waning from continuous weight
and the fervency of hate for these meaningless tasks
Do you pause to wonder
Would they come?
Consider it stark that in fact your life
has become that which you abhor
A meaningless grind for the merchants of grime
who seldom stop to ponder
Their forked tongues flick about,
as they meet in their broods
to chart their next agenda
All the while counting change
which they made off the sweat
of life's poorest wanderers
Do you pause to wonder
Would they come?
For after you've bled from the vampire load
toiled with the buffalo yoke
Carried the giant weight of the whale's carcass
and trudged through the snow
their prize on your head
blood dripping down your face
With buckling knees and arms weak from disease
On your twenty sixth mile of the marathon's run
As you drop at their feet and present them their prize
Through your dying eyes as you look at your death
Do you pause to wonder
Would they come?

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