Your Cart

I Feel It All Ache | Poetry

The Aura of Leaves : Digital Art by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

I ache for this place.

I have seen almost none of it,

but I ache even for those numberless places I haven’t seen too.

This culture is insane.

It’s suicidal.

It lumbers around on cancerous fairy tales of eternal growth,

as that remarkable young woman cried,

and it perpetuates itself on hate, hate, hate … hate.

Hate for equality.

Hate for fairness.

Hate for rest.

Hate for honesty.

Hate for democracy.

Hate for honest merit.

Hate for egalitarianism.

Hate for gentleness.

Hate for calmness and consideration.

Hate for genuine spirituality.

Hate for tolerance.

Hate for peace.

Hate for quiet.

Hate for the green, the alive, the dew-dropped, the flowing, the real.

Crazy haters calling for civil war

because people are trying to wake to the insanity.

Crazy haters calling for death and destruction

because their illegitimate leader loves death and destruction.

Crazy haters with crazy guns, bullets tearing into innocent flesh,

so often young and helpless,

crazy bullets of hot craziness, denying sanity, peppering democracy,

its pillars crumbling,

the neat uniforms and darkness threatening once again,

marching, parading, arms extended stiffly,

the ovens re-lit.

I feel it all ache. I feel this sphere swell as with a terrible fever.

We are the virus.

The indifferent cogs … they are no better than the haters.

There is no room for indifference anymore.

To be so is to be a hater.

Morality and immorality are not equally viable, equally valid.

You cannot say, “I need to see more evidence.”

The evidence is already there, and has been confirmed a zillion fucking times.

Your indecision is immoral. You are immoral.

No more evidence is needed for that.

I feel it all ache.

The world wants to rest and recover.

The virus must change.

She is losing patience with it.

If you love your children …

If you love your wife or husband …

If you love breathing …

Then you will be losing patience with it, too.

That’s the only moral attitude you can have at this point.

There are no more fences to sit on.

They’ve all burned to the ground.

The virus must change.

The hate must be vanquished.

The moral must win.

Or we all will die—including the haters.

Sooner—much sooner—than later.


From Conversations With God: Volume Two


Previous poem

Next poem


Featured: The Aura of Leaves, by yours truly