A Gradual Regeneration

It is easy to see that things have gone wrong,

How the life we live is not life at all.

Crippled under our smallness,

Our hands above our heads, resisting,

So that a sky of our broken hopes,

unanswered questions and the truth of ourselves

Might not crush our fleshless bodies.

“Don’t you know that what you seek is unattainable?”

“Oh, You think you know better

Because you have read, you have studied?

Haven’t you learned?

Look at you.

A slave of social niceties, a worshipper of dead men.

Where are you in this shadow of living?

You are nothing like you dreamed you would be.

You are fooling yourself.”

“No, no, no, look at me!

O, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people’

It is good that at least one is awake!

I am awake!

I hold my destiny

And will not bend

To this confusion that seems to hold a nation.

By speaking I revolt, and I will build an empire

Free of illusions and fairy tales.”

“I suppose you should build an island,

For every man is alone.

Stay inside yourself, by yourself.

You alone are what you know,

Nothing else is real, nor as true to your plans

As you are.”

This spiraling talk I hear from my perch

On a bench at the crossroads

Of Main street and Standard lane.

It seems this man, about 30 or so,

Speaks to none but himself

Within the man-made constructions

Of Standard and Main.

I believe he noticed my intrusion,

For as I looked on,

He walked off,

Mumbling his plans to escape

As he went.

“All else fails me, I stand on shifting grounds.

Where else can I go but inside?

At least here I know the content, the hour, the weakness

Of my self-constructs and mirrored ways.”

He comes to a halt, dead

In the middle of Main,

Turns to his left and cuts through the alleys,

Weaving his way through paths unknown to him.

But at least he makes the paths.

He dashes through the looming gray structures,

just shadows bordering the concrete path he follows.

He rounds the brick apartments, the cement complexes,

makeup of men.

Giggling with glee, he presses on,

Delighted by his role as ruler

Over the subconscious of the city.

“Ah, this is truth!

My own way, and none have a hold on me!

If only all took the alleys, the paths unknown,

The determinant of our empty actions.

The beast’s underbelly directs the hunt,

For there lies its deepest hunger

And greatest weakness.”

So he goes,

Scouting ways untouched,

And all excites.

“Look! A stray cat! I suppose I am the first to see it,

As everyone is so consumed in obligations and refinements.

I bet only I can tell the brand of cement used in this city

Or what neighbors do when neighbors aren’t looking.

If only they knew! Then

They might be enlightened.”

Days and days pass.

He walks;

Upon stones and stones

His feet press,

Memorizing every detail,

Absorbing every letter and trash bit

As if it were solid gold.

Breathing and breathing

In

Soot from the chimneys,

Smog from the factory marshes, and

Out

Clear thoughts and clear loves.

An emptiness begins to creep in,

A thought that perhaps

He has gone the wrong way.

“I have come too far!

I will not turn back.

This is all I am now.

Where else would I go in this city?”

He presses on,

Some unknown force taking hold of him.

To him, ambrosia runs through his veins.

But the soot has reached his blood stream,

And his body is making a final effort

Before its end.

Eyes darting incessantly,

His hands search in the dark

For the next passageway;

Yet his senses fail him,

And he stumbles blindly

Into the buildings Which seem to move closer to him

Each step he takes.

He has come to the end of himself.

“What has happened,

To my beautiful mind that took all into account,

That saw so clearly the flaws of my neighbor?

Now, I cannot even move forward.

My legs are useless, my vision muddied.

I do not deserve life

If all I am is dead weight to the greater calling.”

Releasing his breath,

The soot settles.

He gasps.

It is the edge of the city.

Hills of green and gold rise to meet him,

Like rushing waves, surging up to kiss the sky.

Beams of late afternoon glow

Bathe the countryside,

Calling it good.

And the forest,

An overwhelming kingdom

Of breathing buildings,

Their movement like flames,

Dancing with life across the countryside.

Crumpling to the ground,

He clutches his eyes,

Blocking the light from seeping in.

He puts his head between his knees,

Wailing and gritting his teeth,

Waiting for the ringing,

The blaring light,

To dissipate.

He lies still for a long while.

Finally, he decides he will chance a glance

Of this new earth on which he kneels.

He opens an eye.

The grass is wet beneath him,

Dewdrops resting gently on the blades.

He jerks his head from the resting place

Between his knees.

The whole world is like this,

Covered in the dewfall,

Each living thing a vessel

for the light of the day.

“Why do they give in so simply, so unconsciously?

Do they not know that the world has betrayed them?”

Glaring at the hillside, he screams:

“You have been used!

All of you, tree and flower,

Leaf and creature,

None cares for you!

So why do you shine?

You will perish soon or at least

Never be seen.”

The life of the world stares back,

Unshaken by his mockery,

Much like a healthy heart

When told to stop beating.

He settles into this silence

And listens.

This stillness proves louder than the city,

Clean air piercing his decayed lungs,

And a living current far above him

Drains toxins from his mind.

His steps out into the trees,

Brushing the leaves lightly with his fingertips.

Design unfolds before his eyes.

Sinews in the leaves,

Leaves latched on branches,

Branches on trunks,

Trunks held by roots.

Three times he blinks.

Softly he asks

“Am I not my own?”

The trees breathe,

Sustaining the earth.

He comes to a tree larger than the rest,

Awesome in its height and layers.

It seems to uphold the forest,

Each of its branches stretching to gently touch

And guide its earthly dominion.

Dropping to his knees again,

He presses his hand to the base of the tree,

Searching for a pulse.

As it is, it is good.

A tear escapes his eye,

Falling between the roots.

“To you most of all I am sorry.

All that you are is so that others may live.

Even now I depend on you for my breath,

So that I might live,

So that I might speak.

To you most of all I am sorry.”

The tree is still,

Although it seems to exhale,

A sigh of relief

From a child’s homecoming.

“Abide in me.”

So he stays, at the base of the tree,

Curling up between its monstrous roots,

Like a child to a bosom.

He falls asleep,

Breathing gently as he slumbers.

Soon, he will awaken,

And by the light of the earth,

He will see himself clearly.