The grass has a cerulean tinge which I associate
with the seaside, coarse and tough—
while the day
wraps herself in a silky cloak that gleams from afar;
it’s admiration that moves us,
and urges us to make a change, offer input, and restore beauty
back out into the world.
Things were different back then; honesty had a way of finding its path,
a form of karma
that portrayed not only golden stones but potholes as well.
Fast forward to the current age,
and dive headfirst into lies— all vibrations in the air,
inconsequential to the medium through which they travel.
Of course, if you fight it,
you stick out, you are a rebel, a conspiracy theorist— a marked person.
The grass on my soles is scarce,
mown so short that the ground can be seen through
and the day is shadowy grey,
almost as though the skin is stretched taut across her cheekbones—
were my thoughts visible,
they would be an explosion, should I choose to speak them out loud
and see the wandering begin in your eyes—
you, the current generation, the future bread and butter of households,
the shapers of society;
your thoughts you guard, hardly ever letting an unconsidered word
escape from your lips,
I fear you lack depth; you lack imagination.
I don’t know what causes you to hide or what forms your apathy
but I need you to hold open the door.
There comes a time when pushing one’s ideas that could save our world
becomes morally the right thing to do;
much like destroying weeds before sowing new grass, only—
things were different back then.
Photo credits: Unsplash
Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United