In the style of Thomas Gray
Elegy for the Psychic Pillory
This stadium hosts crowds of men
Who pray to Gods that feign impartiality;
Injecting poison again and again
Into those veins that rebel against reality.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, shouts the brain,
Just one reprieve against this beast who glowers;
A night of peace and rest and rain
Until the feet may feel the morning’s flowers.
From human hands have sprung the scrolls
That tell the world the stories of its children;
Those miniature hopes, desires and goals
Uniting the heroes and the scornful villains.
The potions rushed me to the land
Where clouds concealed the naked truths of heaven;
Never to touch the Archangel’s hand
While the peasants waited for their bread to leaven.
I witnessed all the thespians’ toil
Imagining myself an actor in a stage show;
Earth heating up to a rolling boil
Until those who would be devils became so.
My tome was burned, slashed and forgotten
By the lonely mothers whose job was to read it;
Paying no mind to the sons they’d begotten
And who’d gone out into the world to succeed it.
Whither go the birds in winter
When northern climes become too cold and freezing?
Have they secret ores that sinter
Providing warmth so safe, snug and pleasing?
The diaspora from the schoolyard is complete,
The branches of the family broken and scattered;
No more hugs and kisses sweet
And questions raised of whether it all mattered.
‘Tis gone! I realize, scanning the asphalt,
The places we characters all used to gather;
My psychic loans all now ready to default
As those who were children have become mothers and fathers.
Houses filled with humans quake
And threaten to crumble down to their foundations;
While suicides in the crystal lake
Reveal not any logical causation.
The forest’s dying tree by tree,
Chained off by signs and by barbed wire fencing;
Moonlight shining down on me
As I contemplate all my lifeblood’s condensing.
And so at home I stay in this shelter
Safe from the humiliation of the pillory;
Never to figure out the welter
That’s gunned me down from its heavy artillery.
This stadium hosts crowds of men
Who pray to Gods that feign impartiality;
Injecting poison again and again
Into those veins that rebel against reality.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, shouts the brain,
Just one reprieve against this beast who glowers;
A night of peace and rest and rain
Until the feet may feel the morning’s flowers.
From human hands have sprung the scrolls
That tell the world the stories of its children;
Those miniature hopes, desires and goals
Uniting the heroes and the scornful villains.
The potions rushed me to the land
Where clouds concealed the naked truths of heaven;
Never to touch the Archangel’s hand
While the peasants waited for their bread to leaven.
I witnessed all the thespians’ toil
Imagining myself an actor in a stage show;
Earth heating up to a rolling boil
Until those who would be devils became so.
My tome was burned, slashed and forgotten
By the lonely mothers whose job was to read it;
Paying no mind to the sons they’d begotten
And who’d gone out into the world to succeed it.
Whither go the birds in winter
When northern climes become too cold and freezing?
Have they secret ores that sinter
Providing warmth so safe, snug and pleasing?
The diaspora from the schoolyard is complete,
The branches of the family broken and scattered;
No more hugs and kisses sweet
And questions raised of whether it all mattered.
‘Tis gone! I realize, scanning the asphalt,
The places we characters all used to gather;
My psychic loans all now ready to default
As those who were children have become mothers and fathers.
Houses filled with humans quake
And threaten to crumble down to their foundations;
While suicides in the crystal lake
Reveal not any logical causation.
The forest’s dying tree by tree,
Chained off by signs and by barbed wire fencing;
Moonlight shining down on me
As I contemplate all my lifeblood’s condensing.
And so at home I stay in this shelter
Safe from the humiliation of the pillory;
Never to figure out the welter
That’s gunned me down from its heavy artillery.