Beyond the bourgeois, bedded silence of my room
I sense the minds of others threading through,
their vastness pressing over my small self,
a fleeting speck in humanity’s weave,
bound to billions in electric, cybernetic streams.
A ceaseless chorus murmurs near:
their laughter, their laments, I hear.
This current swells—serene at times,
then jagged, pulsing, sharp with crimes—
pulsating between strife and peace,
as batons, bayonets, and bright-hot bullets gleam,
next to ballets, bibbers, and the light of a bodhi’s dream.
I feel the hollow hunger of hordes,
bellies grumbling with unmet needs,
as age-old conflicts erupt in sanquine scenes
as prejudices near the surface seethe.
Cradled in wealth this frostbound night,
swathed in eiderdown, half-asleep,
I count sheep to mute the distant screams,
my soul a shrunken ember, flickering.
My moral mind, so long a stone, numbed cold,
awakens with a single, barbed, unbidden thought:
Am I but vapor, weightless, pale, and gray,
drifting above this fractured fray?
Or a marble monument to indifference,
sinking through a crushing dark
where only the brutal honesty of gravity
holds sway?
