Poem: THE START AT THE END

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Michael Burns Oil Painting on hard board 30 X 15 inches

Pity them…

The air is thick with their moist chemicals,

and atmospheric rivers fill their parch beds of stone dust.

Grey ribbons of cloud sink down and crash together, on top of us.

This brave new place of techno-crop.

The light is stilted and in a stutter, to begin

hesitant to shine, at all.

it doesn’t seem natural.

I am reminded of a line, spoken by wisdom,

“With the passing of youth, life’s rainbow glitter soon wears off; one by one the

shining bubbles burst and the ‘shades of the prison house’ close in.”

The old guard is leaving.

And though they do not understand, they understand.

They are ancient now, and bound for their graves.

And they have not bleed, like you.

And they have not sang songs like you.

And they have not known, loves sweet tender caress… like you.

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Pencil and graphite on 75 lb rag paper Michael Burns

They have…bathed themselves in a false quality.

A whole life long.

And known not the pleasure,

of a conflict of conscience, or dark night.

They have not struggl’d with their soul, like you.

They are corporeal strangers, you see.

Of flighting things of no importance;

paper, stick and glue.

They are truly the fallen ones, and spite the dark against the light;

and know no reason for it…

their hearts fill with the words of their ignorant shame.

Having failed the simply lesson

“Primum scire te..”

And in their desperation and last hours,

to squeeze loose the last and final drops of their material  life;

and then in that terrible anger, turn on the world,

and make it putrid ash.

So the future can not know of it.

Pity them,

for they have no soul.

Pity them for they are not immortal like you…

Pity them for they will not leave this place.