“Paper Airplanes”

beneath an old oak tree
I sat, having sought shelter from a beating sun
wind slowly whistled through the branches
like so many paper airplanes
waiting to be cut, to be thrown
carelessly, into this same wind
as the dust that we become
so many lives

I’ve watched the trees become dead stumps
I’ve watched the children become martyrs
of commercial entropy
jaded adults born into a dead world
where depression is treated with a bottle
a cure for all your woes
at the low price of 199.99
subliminal becomes actual
seeking escape from the cyclical, natural order of emotional to and fro
a world where symptoms are treated
and illnesses are kept just barely there
never cured
we are never told
to get off our asses, do the dishes, take a walk
accept the reality in which we live

so many lives
waiting to end
waiting to stop
having never been lived

so many lives
like so many trees
paper airplanes to the wind

© M. Black, 2017 All rights reserved.


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