I’m very worried about the Future.
I’m very worried that no one seems worried.
The writing’s on the wall.
The head is on the plate.
The beast is being carved;
the priests have much to eat.
I’m worried about the children—
how they will come to the feast,
how they will look at one another,
how cold their bodies will become,
their minds, their souls.
(aside: I don’t want my soul to die.)
It will start innocent enough:
school, and “discipline”—
because of course we need discipline.
Then they’ll go wayward in their teens
and, of course, come back again.
They always come back:
back to childhood and their churches,
back to “discipline” and their teachers,
back, back, way back
into the murky pool,
fingering its depths
for something living and cold.
So I’m worried about a Future that is the Past,
seeping in, coiling like oil around our lives,
weighing us down,
drawing us up
into something bigger.
