A Window Into The Future Poem by Ace Of Black Hearts

Tip toeing down the edges of sanity,
that's what it feels like these ongoing days
in this horrid desert where nothing is to
be seen for miles, there is but a ghost of
recognition under the moonlight sky.
Is it another mirage, a distorted cartoon of
my current reality? Are we all really wanders
of pure survival? Does nothing else matter,
in times of desperate need in desperate places?
Is our instinct that strong? That we ignore
the truths for the easier and more comfortable life.
Is living in luxury really necessary?
Combating a gene of over indulgence.
To deny what has kept going this long.
Is it so wrong to wish upon perfection, knowing
it will never come?
Is it alright to sleep with demons of the past and
still make plans for unknown future?
When the reflections start turning dark is it
enough to just turn on a single light.
Or does it have to be so blindly bright that we
trip over own two feet?
When no solution presents itself, do we walk away
knowing put up the good fight?
Abandon the need for substance, and sustainability.
When these whisper finally fall silent, will it be
because we stopped listening?
A drowning appeal, in a deepening pool of profuse
sadness, anger and pain.
But what is a single plea, among millions?
The echoing of this stillness, can you hear it in this futility of conjecture.
With no real recourse of action or satisfaction.
The hunger can not quenched no matter how insistent it becomes.
Arguments made, proven and dis-proven.
But there use outside the words we come to know and love is so little that the effects are diminished and frequently overwritten.
A continuous mouth battle that is never to be won.
The curtain does not fall on this stage, at least not yet.
It a scene of repetition in a pattern of flaws and mistakes.
Only upon the worst kind cruelty is it finally seen as not necessary.
And only then can be justice served and reset.
Like a domino effect, it takes many to be lined up before they can
all fall down.
And in those moments of vengeance, and violence, who is we blame for
feeding those flames if not ourselves.
The crucification of an idea so maddening it seems incomprehensible
now, but it will repeat.
You can kill the man, but never the idea.
He who shall speak without name, without aspirations, will be pushed
to front as a lamb sent to slaughter.
An upon his reaping of the seeds that will be sewn into the very fabric time, and space.
A clock frozen and sat upon pedestal to be worshiped till the very end.
Which never can be reached by single human being, for there is no distinct time known.
A whistling can always be heard in the distance.
One step closer, and then the pieces are scattered.