Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Headline Poem 9/23/14 -- Our Renaissance

Our Renaissance 

We turned struggle into an art, 
an endless obsession, a quest for broken hearts. 
But we grew weary and started 
to sweat. Our hands ached and we were wet, 
in all the wrong ways,
like watercolored paint with a dried out brush, so desperate for water 
in which to intertwine, 
our arms, dead,
machines functioning
without all of the bolts,
crashing and splashing
over and over
with pulsating volts, 
strokes to nowhere, 
the   end   result,
    a picture with    no    gold. 

How can I explain this sacred scene
without explaining the hell 
we've traveled 
to give birth to 
what you see?