Guest Post Poem

By Steve Beisner



Narcissistic Spring at the End of History




When "I" became all, and "We" the name of fools,
when our mountains of shared being
crumbled into oceans of insignificance,
Then Self stole the throne from messy Life.
The great works became flakes of paper,
and dusty shreds of canvas and paint
were swept up by practical men,
and burned for warmth.
Music that once seemed the songs
of angels could no more be coaxed
from disks and plastic and jumbles of bits
because no one mourned its passing.
Cities are now caves.
History's offspring live as grunting primates,
squatting around the fires of lassitude
that consumed the furnishings of their inheritance.
Even the Shaman will not believe that such as we once were.
It can not be that a people so nearly gods could bury
that spark in their own ashes,
its light grown dark, and the spark a cold memory.
It could not be that one hundred thousand years
of striving and making
could so easily be unmade,
and not noted nor remarked upon.
For those attending the smokey fire,
even their own kind are but scenery,
or sticks of wood to be burned for comfort,
or traded for a place nearer the heat.
Proud folk, nearest the glow, feel no regret,
only relief from the discarded burden of knowing.
For the smug, nothing beyond
their own coil of animal flesh.
Each hums inwardly the mantra of I,
No one but I, only I, forever I.