Still Without Rhythm

Intentional activities,
Come to breathe no new life...
By those of influence,
With narrow eyesights.
And no experience...
Outside of researched and instructed,
Outlooks to compare and grade.
Outlooks...
Taught from books.

To mention good intentions,
When the intent is not visioned...
May excite someone watching paint to dry,
But does nothing for those...
Left ignored,
With innovative imaginations.
And restricted to obey...
Rules penned upon parchment.
To relate to as having a significance,
Documented and adhered.

Like the wearing of wigs,
To hide and deny one's true identity!
As if ashamed.
By the 'evolution' of things.

The ones depicting a certain way of life,
Reflecting a love for horsedrawn carriages...
Seen meandering on cobblestone streets.
May serve a purpose,
For those whose lives are as fresh...
As repeated museum visits to the same exhibits.
With the air inside just as stale.
But having an addiction to things unchanged,
Keeps one to foundations grounded.

However...
Some standards and traditions should be mothballed.
Not resuscitated as if a life lived was then loved.
Yet wasn't.
That is why cemetaries exist.
To bury that which has died from a life which lives.
Many are confused by this transition.

But what repeatedly survives...
Are the narrow minds and diseased philosophies,
That still exist to keep progress restricted.
In a 'let's-live-life-as-it-was-when-darkness-hid-our- flaws'
Syndrome.

Those dancing today and still without rhythm...
Will never have 'it' to know what staying within it means.
They've been out of it observing.
Hoping that the act of 'taking' it and putting it somewhere else...
Keeps an attachment that grows to become familiar.
As if the hearing of a beat will connect to their feet.
No matter if the thumping roars...
A sadness is still observed upon the floors.
Something in the mind is out of sync.

But...
If nothing is felt,
Because of lack of 'soul'...
What is done is as useless as the doer,
Who can not associate what that feeling is...
That is needed.

No one can lay under it...
Like laying under the Sun to camouflage reality!
To then describe what has been obtained,
As healthy.
And yet destroy those with the natural appearance.
Those not baking.
Like those who later sizzle with contempt shown.

Feelings are needed,
If one is to know what the enjoyment of life means.
And that is not a perception delivered by a hired architect!
Or contained in a bottle to release a protectiveness,
One perceives to get.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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