No, we haven’t always followed
a circus of clowns drunk on folly.
Once, long ago, we weren’t
a herd of thought blinded folks
driven (by the neck, gently…)
into the jaggedness of the abyss.
My grandfather remembers the bliss
of dreaming. My grandmother? No,
she had no rights to dream. But
that’s a story for later. Today,
I speak of the orange-faced windbags,
the dimwits with dry straw growing
out of hubris-thickened skulls
that should have contained brains.
Oh, but we have no choice. We must
open our eyes and see, or we’ll crash.
We will crash so damn hard
that our many-times repaired hearts
will stop pumping living red into backbone,
and our brains will spill pinkish into muck,
way before we reclaim our rights to think.
“Being Human: a Work of Heart”, by Paper Doll State of Mind