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