The Rubicon
When events contrive to stir the emotions;
Say when touched by personal trauma
Or deluged by a media's diet of dramatized disasters,
Impinged,
We are,
To thought provoked;
To take a passing glance at those things
Beyond the immediate cascade of crises
That is our lives, for most of us.
To ponder on the future,
Our own, mankind's, existence.
Usually short-lived,
Such thoughts curtailed to a fatalistic resignation
Of things beyond our control,
We hope for the best,
But fear for the worst,
As the more immediate crisis of;
“What shall I cook for tea?!”
Return to absorb the mind.
But fear provoked,
Questions remain unanswered
To gnaw on the bones of hope;
What is the future for my children?
For the “Jack’s”,
Who can afford to buy enough sand,
The answers come in self deluding optimism
In which to bury his head, all right Jack!
And ostridge Jack in his wealthy sand dune
Can drink the blood red wine
Of those that can't afford it
And see the world in pink,
And the thirsty in their powerlessness die.
So we take a peek, from time to time
When nudged by a famine here,
A war, there pollution everywhere,
But in the end we stop looking,
Numbed to apathy,
Over dosed on a media diet
Of depressing documentaries
And self prophesying statistics.
We close our eyes
Lest we should see the buffers we're about to hit
And glimpse the shame of being a destroyer;
And with fear and guilt lose hope.
Politicians, leaders, tinkering at the edges
As they dance their chameleon principles
To the color of the majority.
What blindness seals our eyes?
With what intoxication are the senses numbed
To make this Rubicund we cross unnoticed?
What sweet melody are our fiddles playing, that we care Not for burning “Rome”.
Are our hearts and minds so un-Inclined to pay the ferry Man the price of justice?
Or is it a hidden that power stays our hand from action?
No.
There is no beguiling temptress, no malevolent power
It is but the nature of the “beast”,
We are the fittest, the survival of.
Equipped with “selfish” traits at nature's design
Our instincts have served us well
Too well?!
That they bring us to our Apocalypse now.
“A poor design indeed”, you say,
If by the instruments of our success we meet our own demise.
And yet, by this same design an intellect acquired
To mark our good, our bad.
We have, like a child played with a new toy.
Manipulating our instincts with power beyond the measured designed, to perversity.
Can man subdue his instinctual beast,
That lies within?
To curb his “selfish” survival
To tame it, train it
And bend it to an intellectual will?
Unless this race has run its course,
And I think not,
Then
We must work to make it true.
Say when touched by personal trauma
Or deluged by a media's diet of dramatized disasters,
Impinged,
We are,
To thought provoked;
To take a passing glance at those things
Beyond the immediate cascade of crises
That is our lives, for most of us.
To ponder on the future,
Our own, mankind's, existence.
Usually short-lived,
Such thoughts curtailed to a fatalistic resignation
Of things beyond our control,
We hope for the best,
But fear for the worst,
As the more immediate crisis of;
“What shall I cook for tea?!”
Return to absorb the mind.
But fear provoked,
Questions remain unanswered
To gnaw on the bones of hope;
What is the future for my children?
For the “Jack’s”,
Who can afford to buy enough sand,
The answers come in self deluding optimism
In which to bury his head, all right Jack!
And ostridge Jack in his wealthy sand dune
Can drink the blood red wine
Of those that can't afford it
And see the world in pink,
And the thirsty in their powerlessness die.
So we take a peek, from time to time
When nudged by a famine here,
A war, there pollution everywhere,
But in the end we stop looking,
Numbed to apathy,
Over dosed on a media diet
Of depressing documentaries
And self prophesying statistics.
We close our eyes
Lest we should see the buffers we're about to hit
And glimpse the shame of being a destroyer;
And with fear and guilt lose hope.
Politicians, leaders, tinkering at the edges
As they dance their chameleon principles
To the color of the majority.
What blindness seals our eyes?
With what intoxication are the senses numbed
To make this Rubicund we cross unnoticed?
What sweet melody are our fiddles playing, that we care Not for burning “Rome”.
Are our hearts and minds so un-Inclined to pay the ferry Man the price of justice?
Or is it a hidden that power stays our hand from action?
No.
There is no beguiling temptress, no malevolent power
It is but the nature of the “beast”,
We are the fittest, the survival of.
Equipped with “selfish” traits at nature's design
Our instincts have served us well
Too well?!
That they bring us to our Apocalypse now.
“A poor design indeed”, you say,
If by the instruments of our success we meet our own demise.
And yet, by this same design an intellect acquired
To mark our good, our bad.
We have, like a child played with a new toy.
Manipulating our instincts with power beyond the measured designed, to perversity.
Can man subdue his instinctual beast,
That lies within?
To curb his “selfish” survival
To tame it, train it
And bend it to an intellectual will?
Unless this race has run its course,
And I think not,
Then
We must work to make it true.