Close your eyes and look.
This world we're in
has gone lame,
and soon, we'll be bedridden.
We have psychiatrists for our past,
psychics and priests for our future.
Drugs, television and money distract us in between.
If only we could throw these crutches
on the fire,
the smoke that dissolved into emptiness
would be our suffering:
the ashes left behind, the salve to heal our wounds.
If only we could throw off these oilskins
we've wrapped around ourselves so tightly,
the separate drops of water
would once again melt into an ocean:
and with that ocean
how could our thirst go unquenched?
Written by The Dark-haired Goddess of the Moon