Day Nineteen: Poetry Rewrite

The television starts to sing again,

A haughty unchallenged little tune again:

Such beauty from a human mind

Could only by dull unowned fingers be refined

To such a haunting din. And the magic left

Within us is taken only to be sold back,

What was taken being all we lack.

 

So then be all my credit cards and cigarettes

Left with anarchists and malcontents:

With smeared hope on every hard-earned dime,

Sweat and bled from nine to five—

God, it’s all just dirt and dust and grime,

To be reminted and imbibed

By starred men in striped bow tie.

 

The din and dust dims this light in us,

Banished by a single fashioned match–

But the darkness is old and deeper than it looks,

Full of mirrors and shameless crooks.

Once, the only thing to fear was fear itself,

Now excepting terrorists, embarrassment or ill-health.

 

And what I love and what I don’t,

Sold to me by bits of smoke,

Echoing hollowly through the T.V. screen.

And the television starts to sing again,

A haughty unchallenged little tune again…

————————————————

I don’t know how I feel about this. It took a bit of an overhaul, for better or for worse. I’ll think about it.