Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

By starstruck eyes

            who scrape the world’s scape

What a pressure is therein

            to find position too becolored as great.

 

Who do I serve then?

What breed of awe serves I?

 

Is there a place now for wonder?

Is any dream mine?

 

Is the best bid of social order

            that of aspirational fraught?

Be there a community

            of received authenticity who won’t clot?

 

No practical path see I

            towards salvation in a vacuum,

Even by staunch work

            they and I’s work pays rent in a backroom.

 

Who can be punctual,

            when “security” indebts me?

Who can have sanctity,

            when “institution” beds me?

 

Action is fruitless

            because action is a loan.

This borrowed solitude is repaid then,

            in a lifelong home.

This home is a prison

            where you’re demanded to dream

some way to show appreciation

            to our parasitic machine.

 

You’re made to see forward

            several million years ahead

Where a billionaire laughs

            because they fear not for their bread.

I look at mine then,

            colored now a sea foam hue.

When passion hasn’t power

            there’s no more to do.

 

In an ironic twist too then –

            that through mere gesture and nod.

I’m handless too then –

            in the eyes and breadth of God.