A blank slate, I look upon this table rase,
And wonder what words shall soon appear on the ancient histories of this age.
C’est a-dire une revolution
Progress, rage, opining banter on the graffitied walls of a frenzied media stage.
What Gods do we serve in this wide forum soon to be tell-taling an unchangeable, penned-in-ink future?
What purpose do we worship in a world filled with so many dangers to body and mind?
Will the terror of flu cut us down in our prime or will
Wellness commit us to serve a lifetime sentence of a thousand well-lived circa-century spans,
As those before us;
All those before us.
Decisions, they say, our ours.
A beautiful lie to covet.
Morality is our personal brand to elect, as beautiful as a snow flake with its six sides,
Scientifically determined to be only that way.
We are the hope that lingers in the ether.
The every-generation, as every generation before us.
And burgeoning light lies before us on this open road.
Just one boy, a man; a miniscule fleck in eternity