Poetry: The Human Touch


Note: This poem is revised from an earlier version . . . there were two words in the original that simply didn’t project the imagery I envisioned.


We are terminally predictable,

Structuring physics and metaphysics

From dead analogies and tired neurons,

Seeking destiny in faux horizons,

Avoiding the unpleasant here and now,

Forever hungering for a phantom

To provide an illusion of purpose.

The impossible is born in two ways:

From the survival fears that drive us

Blindly in search of another morning,

Or from the sound we hear when the chains snap

And our spirits flee in rapturous joy

From the ancient curse of isolation,

To the sustaining ache for human touch.


© 2012 by Robert Morrow

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.