Rainbows settled in silent flares
around our faded bell-bottoms and
defiant hair, igniting us.
We were the Revolution, the
torch clutched in Lady Liberty's hand.
King's dream led us to Selma,
to Washington (and oh, dear God,
when will the Dream come true)
Where did we go? We of the burnt
draft cards, the discarded bras,
we with the voices of a thousand trumpets
and aching breastbones, hoping
to turn water into wine and so transform
the multitudes.
Questions and more questions...
Maybe our dreams ran through our fingertips
until the tired fires finally died.
Perhaps disappointed tears doused them,
bright vibrant colors running down
through dead uneven grass
to the seas where even the dolphins
have grown oddly quiet.
Pris Campbell
(c)2005
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2 comments:
Maybe we just became tired of the road, realized that it has a terrible way of twisting back around on itself, or maybe we retired :).
Good reflective poem, Pris.
Thanks..I don't know what happened, either, but I still miss the fire.
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