top of page
Writer's pictureSydney Elizabeth Chandler

Cold in the Heart of Men

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?

24 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Fractures

Pick-pocket change and a trail of dust –– licked clean; huffed deep; a rolled-up tenner in hand –– She tells you she had to put the dog...

La Quinta

So delicate, the mountains stand, like paper-mache experiments sculpted by a shaking hand, no, perhaps a thoughtful hand, one set with...

The Fall

They stand tall in the thousands. Momentous in their tear-shape patchworks. Each attached to the tree limb by one thin strand, one so...

Comments


bottom of page