The Savage

I thought it would be wonderful.
The world, the new world, would be good and noble.
But this… this new world is not that.
The world is just as savage as my own.
“So quick bright things come to confusion.”
My dreams of enlightenment and wisdom are gone.
Life is not as it was, nor was it meant to be.
The drug that dares to numb those who need the pain.
The pain, the acknowledgement of awareness.
Oh forgive me! Please forgive me!
Oh forgive me for tasting the fruit of the strumpet that they call their land.
For in that place it belongs to everyone.
“Out damned spot!”
It will not leave me! Oh mother, how could you fall prey to that spot?
That spot that I call evil and abandonment!
Even as a child you left me to him that infected you with the tastes of this world.
Why did such evil come to us? Why?
They know not. You know not, that sit dumbly and idly as your minds are eaten.
Such apathy.
Why has this time come?
How could it have come?
“Beware the ides of March.”
Alas, they are here every day.
Like Caesar I am stabbed by her.
Strumpet, how dare she try to seduce me!
It is not her fault.
No, it is.
No.
They have no guide, like I did.
A mother who loved me, even when she was lost in her mind.
Yet now there is the father that rejects me.
My mother is now gone, preferring the cold comfort of the fatal pill.
Who is left?
Just you, John, just you.
The Savage must subsist on his own.
I, the forsaken, in this barren land.
But still they hound me.
Leave me!
“O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are here!
How beauteous mankind is!”
If only he could see this day, he’d spit upon the graves of their leaders.
Why won’t they leave?
Why did I ever leave my home?
O brave new world!
Perhaps the next will be a better one?

Found Poem

He knew something about human nature, all right,
But he wasn't really in touch with the world.
"They can't keep me from running," he said.
The man knew he was next,
For he could hear the slosh of water and the gulping and inhaling.
He beckoned to the man and he comforted him before the plunge.
"It is a vacation from being you," he said.
"For life is motion." Besides they are all dead.
"But sometimes death is a cold silence like the arctic night."
"Not always," said the murderer.
"There is some hullabaloo about it."
He grabbed his scalp and pushed him under.
It was all a breathless monotony, suddenly cut off, never a blunder.
Then there he was, the flower in the cranny.