I dreamt of our death,
Yours and mine.
Our synapses,
Clogged with messages,
Could not convey
The urgency
Of the moment
To our hurried minds.
Free men and women,
We held a lamp
In a hurricane,
And imagined it
To be
A beacon
That would never go dark.
And i said to you,
On the eve
Of the end
Of our great experiment,
Only this:
The majesty of our minds
And the purpose
Of our souls
Will be extinguished in fire.
Our eyes, filmed over,
Will go entirely dark.
Only the sound
Of our pursuers
Will be heard,
Coming for us
Through the woods.
i awoke and was relieved,
But not entirely,
Because, though awake
These many hours,
i still
Hear them coming.
--Mr. Gobley
2 comments:
So do I, Mr. Gobley. Thankfully, many other people do too. This poem is a departure in subject matter for you, I think, but like all your work it connects the crises of everyday with something larger, less visible, eternal.
I read a political message into this the first time around, and this time, coming back with only a vague memory of it, I didn't. It was equally powerful both times.
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