Skylight and Seagulls
A Poem
The human machinery
is sunlight through the blinds
seeping through like
the strain of a river.
An ebb and flow
of thoughts and ideas
forever concealed
in a big black box.
Someone said that God
is the space between
an amplifier and your membrane,
that heavenly cacophony
where the faces shine
raw power
in its purest form.
The sound of the shopping mall
reverberating
with its offers
The price of admission
to society's woes
A shelf of make-believe,
a future
imagined —
the white picket fence
red
with blood.
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It's the season of seagulls
and strips
of torn cotton
float
in the air.
Home at last, to make a new nest
drifting aimlessly
in the blue.
Scouring for resources
in the trees
and on the ground,
carried inland by the wind,
crossing the waves.
Soaring over the heads
of thoughtless folks
like you and I,
clumped together
like lovers
in embrace,
sheets to the wind.
Doing in their annual rituals,
all with their minds
on a mate.
Will the clouds ever have a home?
Everyone and everything
dancing
to the great gig
in the sky.
