what do we fear
Loss. Mourning.
What is left behind and lingering
as reminders tempt into intractible corners,
into desolate landscapes,
underground pits where monsters are kept.
And then we hear
we are supposed to be sad leaving.
In a simple room with a stage
people gather to watch and listen
as the future is invoked,
call it art or antenna,
oblivion behind closed eyes,
converging sound strings,
grasping at whatever rhythm or melody
teased out of the ether of the assumed
higher self,
the puppet dancing
as grace and warning.
What is left behind and lingering
as reminders tempt into intractible corners,
into desolate landscapes,
underground pits where monsters are kept.
And then we hear
we are supposed to be sad leaving.
In a simple room with a stage
people gather to watch and listen
as the future is invoked,
call it art or antenna,
oblivion behind closed eyes,
converging sound strings,
grasping at whatever rhythm or melody
teased out of the ether of the assumed
higher self,
the puppet dancing
as grace and warning.