Cold in the heart of men
we wallow. Waiting, waiting –
for the words. Where be our
freedom? Some call from their
stoops, from their cars. As if man
has conjured this illness unto
the world. As if man had the
mind to do so. Weary, weary
we are at heart – more so those
who seek meaning in their
labor. What be of me now? cries
the man in his suit, cries the
woman in her skirts. Work
has abandoned us. Drive
has receded as life forces unto
us new meaning. What be of
us now without our titles? What
difference is man from animal,
from machine, when the choice
to work is outlawed. Where
do we turn if we cannot turn
to our hearts, for we do not
know them. Have ignored them
for years. The sound of the
desolate streets. It’s maddening.
The purpose, the weary people,
we cry. The purpose, where is our
veil? Is it in the trees? In the late-
slept mornings? In the arms
of those we can no longer collapse
into? What is man without drive? What
is man with drive? What have we
missed, in our hearts, along the
way? What is she trying to
teach us?