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From the Generations

I am from the blinded universes that were in the beginning

Timeless, senseless, thoughtless

Composed of sweeping midnight clouds

Wisps that flip flop and tumble upon themselves

But multiply to nothing

In the abyss of the lifeless existence
I am from the untold histories of generations

Those who formed fire and studied stars

Forged a world of the untamed wilderness

Forming the bridges and bricks, planting life

Heads dripping with ribbons of sweat

Feet worn and rugged, but hearts sodden with joy
I am from the old men who lived on faith

The Son who devoted life to those

Who know not what it means to live

The martyrs of old whose beads of hope

Smattered the base of charred pyramids

And wet axes shining silver in the sunlight
I am from the desire to discern purpose

To find the true way, that which matters

Clears a path, makes a difference

The people who seek religion but do not realize

That the spiritual life seeks encompassing good

And that trials and tribulations are not to be overcome –

But relished as the basest grain of every life
I am from he who chokes from asthma, extra weight

Minimum wage for a lifetime

Yet love for the ancient way, the peaceful route

The beans and rice, moonlight mediations

Studded with the glittering glories of genuine jewels

Not superficial – but earnestly real

The simple breath, the choicest words:

“I love you now, I always will”

Even when my line falls dead, such sentiments unreturned
I am from she who wants only to serve the world but

Stands stalled by a workforce that disagrees

By her own inability to see that the world cannot be helped

While she herself idly gives over to helpless misery

Strong-willed, yes, but weak in response to those

Who would injure her, trample her in their wake
And I must stand by to watch her selfless sacrifice

But she believes that she deserves her place

But she knows that she has a right to this world
I am a slice of bread in the everlasting loaf – to be burned, devoured

Dampened to slush, thrown to the ducks or the dogs or the destitute

Half a sandwich or a pocket of crumbs

But I was and am and will be

A vague memory, a minute spent in the maker’s kitchen

A momentary spark of energy, a small contribution

To propel our existence to the future of our past



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