Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Poem, Disorganized Boss, 10-11-2011

The middle class suffering
the rug pulled right out
from beliefs and the order
which commanded devout,
leveraging, striving, mortgaging
on the date in the future
when ease of life dawned.

Retirement, loyalty and patterns dried up
leaving still chaos of the shocked and the numb.
Feeling so hollow and without a purpose,
nothing to pacify or show the way,
the ghost from opportunity fails the dismayed.

A whole society looking through smoke,
not recognizing their once focused hopes.
Seeing now only the dull face of loss,
apathy crowding the disorganized boss.
Primal concerns are the past time du jour,
what motivates most would be to become sure.

A newborn order, a newborn share
of simplicity shining and people that care.
Caring for others who are in the same sphere,
caring for NOT what brought everyone here.
The healing of laughter shown in hot tears,
pressed out of tension and release of fear.
--EVE Featherstone

No comments:

Post a Comment