Sunday, May 1, 2016

The Grinder and the Fire-Pit

There is no freedom in what's displaced,
In exchange for this dangerous ride.
The cages we forged for generations.
The chains ever tighter as the years weep.

In soliloquy the fiery tongues talk.
Precariously you toe the cat-walk.
The flames tickle the tips of your vague hopes.
Melting inside cherry red plastic vaults.

The routine beckons, obedience, on time.
Your conditioned like a soldier day by day.
You prepare for your daily reassembling.
Becoming a number in the chain link.

The gears cry out for the unseen pieces.
Resist as you might, a pet on a leash.
Engine whines, you smell the sickening smoke.
Finally, surrender, you embrace the beast.

Look at your neighbors just humming go along.
They sing in unison with with your loved ones.
A conniving conveyor, deaf to whats ahead.
Mesmerized blinders filtering in smiles.

The machines of capital we feed with souls.
The Grinder and Fire-pit demand their toll.
Upon billows 'n plumes toiling spirits float.
Lost to anonymity the sad clouds roll.
                     by Steve Cebula, May Day 2016