Red backpack
04/20 2023
The day is nearly ending,
And the story is aching to be told.
Musicians philosophize,
And politicians blame it on physicists.
Time is but a stubborn illusion
Which our body is trying to catch up to.
Our minds are up there,
Comparing notes with Cain & Abel,
And debating Job with Jagger.
You can't always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes
Find your sons & daughters slaughtered,
And yourself watching the death
Of your perennial wheat fields.
I walk past a woman with a red backpack,
What does it contain? Should I care?
My myopic heart mistakes it for blue,
My thoughts race, what do I say
To the guardian of all future secrets?
She who hears the word from below
(or at least echos their reflections)
I feel we've got that going at least.
She laughs and leans on her friend's shoulder.
I see now, they just look alike.
She who watches waterfalls
From Babylon's gardens and smiles
Because of the warmth from below.
She who warms my hands in hers
When the memory of home grows too cold.
She with that saintly glow which grows
Every time I try to keep her eyes closed
If it is a game that we play,
How could we ever define the rules
When you don't touch the ground
During Helios' daily race?
The bearded angel tries to stop you;
He sees Satan before the fall,
And Eve there below the tree,
And who in retrospect wouldn't wield
That poisoned holy knife?
Good and evil but fairy tales and nightmares.
The skeleton of the Messiah talks to us
One at a time, of course (it's not a cult).
She sees one thing, and I scream the other.
One of us has changed,
The other has one lost weekend to her gained.
The bartender asks me if I haven't had enough.
Time is running out, or so he says.