Prayer for the Blind Leading the Blind
A Poem
Yeats warned us way back when That the worst are full of Passionate intensity, And that the best lack all conviction. But drama need not always be so high For things to fall apart, flying out wide— Vortices turn by boredom or despair As sure as by zeal for good or evil. They only require some projected sense Of a place to go toward, or to flee from, And why we should meekly follow. So we spin on, having learned not to see, And we talk on, having learned not to hear. Each path is good as another When no one knows where we are, Or where we are going, or why. Darkness and ditches wait, but unfazed We walk on, looking only backward To the grievance of the past, forward To a future built on those left behind, But never up to orient our steps, Never down at the danger and the shame. Living to try again tomorrow, Vital as it is, makes an uncompelling ask— "Everyone wants a revolution, But no one wants to do the dishes." If the medium is the message, Freedom is a breeze in the leaves, Courage is a firmly-drawn breath, Community the din of familiar voices, Peace is a still, small whisper, And prayer squints to distant horizons. Only terror comes as a spectacle.
