Echoes of Our Unbecoming

By Nicholas Dante Failla

I am engulfed in a world enduring 

Haunted by a numbing indifference 

That swarms busy streets 

Awash with pleasure-seeking smiles 

And eyes forlorn. 

We trade soil for stone 

And pain, 

For feigned delight. 

With each dreaded step, in guilt I ponder 

Who is it, 

That profits from my breath, 

Poisons my water, 

Stifles my knowledge, 

And occludes my voice? 

Whose children died to stitch my clothes, 

To power my city,

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To cultivate my food for less than a dollar, 

And plenish the dirt with blood for power? 

What has displaced this once resplendent Earth? 

Where trees orchestrated a symphony in the autumnal breeze 

And lullabies rung from the deep blue. 

Where gentle waves caressed my toes 

And the sunlight streaming beyond the sandy cliffs, 

Kindling my face, aglow like honey. 

Where lovers bared their soul 

Under a blushing sunset 

With affection 

deep enough to swim in. 

Where hearts drank an elixir of stories, 

Imparted by the erupted veins of a wise woman. 

Where each flutter of a butterfly’s wing 

Vibrated with the gentle pulse of the seeding soil beneath our feet. 

Where home became who you were,

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And where you wanted to be. 

Where each storm emanated a thunderous ancient rage, 

Cradled by the forgiving mother, shared by all. 

I've grown tired of weeping. 

My tears form rivers that drown my soul and erode woeful screams into stone. 

And now our mother, relentlessly unforgiving, 

With veins, desiccated and scorched. 

For whalesongs grow hoarse from shouting, 

Imprisoned by an ocean we drained to a puddle, 

Beside forests replaced by luxury concrete. 

Conversations are hushed to a vacuous whisper 

And thoughts, medicated to cope. 

I’ve grown tired of knowing 

With every aching breath 

We omit connection 

To be alone. 

Why can’t I take the pill?

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For I too, deserve a thoughtless mind. 

Although I won’t be truly living, nor living, truly. 

I yearn to forget who we were 

Before we became 

Architects of our own demise. 

One might suppose, centuries from now 

We will hear a familiar voice. 

Echoes of a time already lived, 

A time already grieved. 

A time where humanity lost itself.

By Nicholas Dante Failla