STAY IN THE HOT MAGMA CORE
Born on the edge of a millennium
living through our own dark ages
are we the Middle Children?
The Second Son?
Go down South to
that grassy knoll
and see where our country fell.
Is it living up in that
glass eye
so high
the secret to it all?
I blow my horn to the heavens
to herald a message. An invitation.
A challenge. A dare.
Why is it that when we die
we do not go on,
like the snail and the worm.
The bird with a nest of
brambly twigs, thin grass, and saliva.
The peak was reached by an earlier generation.
And now there is no room left to wonder.
We are a distant star
Tucked behind a back-door in the sky
scrambling to keep the pieces together
as they fall apart.
Our greatest leaders are dead.
Our mothers are too old,
Our teachers can’t remember.
Why write these lines
in a language no longer read,
for eyes of binary glue,
for hearts torn-up by the
heartbreak of others.
Our voices lost in the chaos,
in the diffidence.
A clarion call
to the breath of a circle,
to ears still pricked.
Pick off the magic from
the dust in your lives
and eat the hearts of
heaven and hell.
Passion is mute
without your
focused hands
Copyright Oren Peleg 2010
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