City
Streets
How beautiful the end of a candle's life. But to
lead that tormented existence! To have
the very core of one's self set aflame and burned to nothing. The soul,
the essence of its being, released to merge with so many others, becoming
only a tiny fraction of the whole. The rest
is stripped away by the damned persistent flame. It meanders
slowly down the side, hardening into a protective shell, providing all
with only a distorted view of the original. Eventually,
even this deceptive barrier is torn away. The fire
gutters out and all that remains are fragments of that unyielding outer
shell. Destroyed
and never remembered, it will be replaced by another, which can only suffer
the same fate.
Could I stand this? I think not; yet I see so many who endure the same
hardships every day. Walking
the cold, hard street, hundreds shuffle by. They live
like candles. Ambition
beat out of them, dreams torn from their grasp. The child's
soul they began with seeps away and is replaced by the black stain of apathy. They exist,
but they do not live. perhaps
it would be better to simply blow the candle out.
As the multitudes pass by, it is the same face I see on each of them. Misery
carves identical lines in each. The eyes
are dull, spirit has drifted away. This street
sees the incessant tread of the visibly lost. It sees
the purposeful stride of the emotionless men and women in their worn-out
sneakers and trendy dress shoes. Perhaps
it also hears the wounded echo of lost purpose and dashed hopes. It may
see and hear, but this city street feels as little as those who walk it.
