The
Kind of Care I Care About
I’d admit to a prejudice,
But, banality is too widespread
To prove the dead live only here.
I’ve moved, year after year.
Wearied by the search for fonder minds
The finds I make tend for the sake of self.
Take, not give, the living way.
Pay, and don’t stay to hear unsubtle stories,
Trivial glories given status undeserved.
I’d like to say that other’s gifts
Were lifted without payment.
But, the price I pay for sanity
Confirms the pity of a culture
Which can lure ten million minds
To live within the score of finds
Reduced by mass produced response.
Aware;
The kind of care I care about
Is touted by the few,
I must make do with plundering
The wonder of remembered views,
Where time and place were peopled
By a different race than these,
Who learn so early how to turn
Such slight concerns into a view
Which does not grow.
Consigns expectancy to youth
And sheds the truth too soon
To leave sufficient room
For all the womb bred promise
Of the hopefulness of youth
Allowing us to die
Knowing that the truth
Is rarely told, and our compassion
Makes us slaves, to emotions
That are bought, and sold by knaves.
© James Rainsford 2013
But, banality is too widespread
To prove the dead live only here.
I’ve moved, year after year.
Wearied by the search for fonder minds
The finds I make tend for the sake of self.
Take, not give, the living way.
Pay, and don’t stay to hear unsubtle stories,
Trivial glories given status undeserved.
I’d like to say that other’s gifts
Were lifted without payment.
But, the price I pay for sanity
Confirms the pity of a culture
Which can lure ten million minds
To live within the score of finds
Reduced by mass produced response.
Aware;
The kind of care I care about
Is touted by the few,
I must make do with plundering
The wonder of remembered views,
Where time and place were peopled
By a different race than these,
Who learn so early how to turn
Such slight concerns into a view
Which does not grow.
Consigns expectancy to youth
And sheds the truth too soon
To leave sufficient room
For all the womb bred promise
Of the hopefulness of youth
Allowing us to die
Knowing that the truth
Is rarely told, and our compassion
Makes us slaves, to emotions
That are bought, and sold by knaves.
© James Rainsford 2013
Note to readers: Posted somewhat late to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. I'll respond to all who visit here and leave a comment. Kind regards to all at dVerse. James.
