Michael Walkerjohn

Gold Star - 13,805 Points (January 01 / Earth?)

Slavery Of Bliss - Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Morning’s climb stirs; night’s work is done
a solemn thought of what worth comes in
some discipline or just chaotic churn with
introspect or knowledge spurned, while
consciousness pleads that all concerned
will seek each moment’s enlightenment…
And utilize in every thinking’s burn
this gift of first breath and therefore
life; as these two things are the
nexus through to what we learn
prove our validity and
are living’s only truths…
These two things master US
are less discussed, are in essence
lost; to a minute’s minutia
with a bit of confusion in the glimpse
of this illusion, we each entertain
as our simplistic reality…
Oh golly gee! A thought sets free
the difference, between higher minds
and servile woes; who knows
how this earth so turns
or cares that there is
so much more to learn
of what is the truth within US…
That which suspends US, supposedly so
above all the lands and beasts
in one more breath I plead
for my truth to be given me
my spirit’s clarity, a hint of that
mysterious ‘tree’; from this
so many lifetimes I have strayed…
And stayed clear of all thoughts
which did not soothe or calm or pacify
not even trying to formulate
that equation within my mind supreme
accepting this illusion, this caustic dream
this timeless theme that all things
all actions, all results
‘are just what they are’
and this is how life has always seemed…
In this instance comes a flash
of redemption; that solitary
exception to this condition
this heinous rendition of each lifetime
lived in a lowly daze
draped in a ‘Purple Haze’
common and flaccid and insipid and spastic
unaware and barely here
each life without meaning filled purpose…
A scared and brain dead person
uncertain, waiting and wanting time’s curtain
to fall and end this chapter’s madness
this sadness, my insist that all this
is not failure; but one’s allure
one’s burning request, to remain
a ‘slave to bliss’…
To remain as a spit stain
on life’s sidewalks, making nothing
but small talk, meaningless pen strokes
a token of curiosity’s come on
that pleasant face to an empty vase
to a forgotten past, in an empty self
dumbfounding and brutish
loose lipped and foolish
ghoulish and elusive
not conducive, not cohesive
and boorishly stupid
as most humans prove to be…
Thoroughly dissolved in an element amiss
in a distortion of mist
each and all simplistic pawns
kowtowing to the slavery of bliss…

Topic(s) of this poem: spirituality

Form: Free Verse


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Poem Submitted: Monday, September 7, 2015



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