Rebellion
We dreamt in the hazy colors of possibility,
and learned to not apologize for it, for anything
even if it meant a certain aloofness,
a stinging solitude,
and, if not a physical, a spiritual ostracizing,
because we had not read all the books we hoped to read,
nor seen the photographs we hoped to see,
nor had our hopes fulfilled,
and were not fully understood.
We were malcontents, unapologetic and unsatisfied,
demanding more of the world,
more of love,
more of Man,
than the world, in all of its greedy slurping,
than Love in all it’s fickle romanticized shortcomings,
than Man tied down by all his poli-religi-racial biases,
was prepared to offer.
We hated economics, the inviolable rules,
but hoped against hope,
that supply would rise to meet our demand,
that all might not be made well,
but all might be made wondrous, profound, and entirely accepted imperfect,
because we wanted more from Life,
than the drab, formulaic space,
between birth and the grave,
and we wanted those moments,
pure and unadulterated,
before the sun went down,
behind the pine trees on the hill,
and our star-crossed eyes closed,
for the last time.
