I see from my window, my neighbor is
building an ark. He’s building an ark, to hold all his garbage. He’s a
collector you see; the need for things cannot be satiated. The apocalyptic
flood will soon descend on his life; his garbage is in danger of removal by
force, so he hammers and builds, and builds and hammers, long hours into the
day and night.
Mental illness you say? I can talk
about this all day; talk and talk, expound and philosophize, but I have not the
means nor way, to fix broken people. For five years I’ve watched them, mostly
from my window. Now broken children litter the streets, like so many of
society’s disposable people. I can do nothing more than watch, or move.
Who will be next to pay the price you
ask? The price of the inherited defective programing? Will the cycle of
dysfunction ever be broken, or will it continue on and on to see all future
generations, swallowed into a world of hate and fear, without end? All I can do
is observe from this side of a window, as children practice saber rattling, to
lay waste to the illusion of a perceived enemy. Who will be next to see the
view from this window?
Who are the ghost you ask? Did they
grow old watching from behind this window, while madness reigned, and rained,
and ruled? Who are the shadows that walk these floors and run through yards in
the night? Did they live with daggers drawn, and did they bury love in the back
yard, and plant flowers for deaths’ delight? Is the very ground of this place
held hostage by unseen evil, cursed to play out this war over, and over,
through those living on this piece of ground?
I’ll watch from my window; watch the
ark be carried away by the apocalyptic flood on its’ way. I’ll water the
flowers, and dream of younger days. Once upon a time, I did not view life
through the rear-view-mirror, but looked ahead. They are right you know; youth
is wasted on the young. From my window, I'll watch them below, and I’ll watch
the flowers grow.
