Modern people need a single truth.
People wander searching for something to find.
I hear screams and cries at the church down the street.
I see haunting eyes of men and women at the bar-
Ordering another drink, hoping for phone numbers or unknown bedrooms.
I read it in the newspaper, in the magazines, see it flashed over and over on television screens.
At baseball games, the chant of the crowd:
They want to see the pitcher executed.
In a bookstore, waiting in line:
They want to find the book they have not written.
At a mall, ignoring each other:
Entranced by items everyone else owns.
At a crosswalk, waiting for a green light:
Permission granted, now cross.
In the wind, whistling through the palm trees:
Snuffed flame of lost paradise.
In his voice, the coffee shop:
Voice of an ancient never to achieve fame.
In these words, neverending:
Each keystroke an attempt to create the spaces between.
What is this thing we seek?
If I could speak it, I would be pure enlightenment, Buddha:
A smile that penetrates our distractions.
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Comments about this poem (#87 by Spencer Breau )
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