Why Babies Cry...

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It’s the rawness of an oozing wound I place before your eyes.  It’s the septic vision probable I've shown you, you despise. It’s what you have ignored, pushed back, dismissed with your decries. It’s the reason for your anxiousness; it’s why your baby cries.
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It’s what’s hiding in our heavens and awaiting our decision. It’s what’s beyond "almighty God"—his limited religion. It’s the way *they* hover teasingly just outside our line of vision. It’s the dust, well raised, when bunkies spin their webs of "polled concision."
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It’s the "lights" I’ve seen myself remaining strangely inconclusive. It’s the stifling dearth of news the whorish press reports elusive. It’s the way we treat our mother world–unloving, cold, abusive. It’s the way we treat our fellow beings, so thoughtlessly intrusive.
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We buy into a white-bread dream where we don’t pay our end! We weigh our gains suspiciously before we make a friend. Convictions of *tradition*?  We shall not break or bend! Though it detoxifies our insides—we're bereft of all dissent!

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Now I come by and paint ideas for complicated stewardship, based in part on protracted thought, and garden variety scholarship. It’s inconvenient dwelling on the fact of our own kinship?  See, we dump on those less fortunate, thereby, causing all our hardship!
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Please dismiss me, if you must—a bleeding heart, or liberal!  Though, the web of life surrounding me is more than just ephemeral. We slap the face of mother’s grace; we’re "disrespect" in general... as if heads had swapped with tails, somehow; our brains were something sphincteral!
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I’m listening if you tell me when you think I’m wrong or–what? Or if you’re thinking that I’m crazy–writing crap, or not? I do this "thing" from something felt, and I give you all I’ve got; I share with you my conscience as regards the world we've wrought.
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...Too, we but see a tiny slice of that which can be seen. Our "science": profit driven, so elitists contravene! This stunts investigation, and inflicts contrived gangrene... the truth we should be searching for?  It's truth contrived obscene!
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I know that I should shut my mouth, and count my *lucky* stars. I know that I have been accused—a trumped up, heinous charge. I know that "they" could steal the sun, and put me through cold bars. I know they hold "the aces" in their crooked deck of cards...
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...But that’s not what’s bold, provides for "soul," it loses "face" and "honor." That’s not the play we put on here, on a stage where you’re the actor. The lines you speak are made-up lies, produced by a transgressor. His stock in trade? Prevaricate! Eclipsed—all truth, and candor!
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They’re owning all the media–John Swinton makes that clear! They fan up all your hate, and what you hate you, also, fear! You draw your lines too hard and straight, and ALL that’s outside’s "queer." Then you’ll smoke a pack of cigarettes, and pound down too much beer!
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When it’s all done you wake to find that nothing much is changed. Your life is still a treadmill, and your future’s rearranged! Science is dishonored, God’s seemingly deranged, you’re haunted by the world you lost, from whom you’re self-estranged!
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And blooming in your shadows are the monsters you’ve created. These thrive when you ignore them, friend, because they’re not debated!  The thirst for truth is lost by turns; its lost and abrogated. What should be said is not said, so the truth goes understated!
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I know that what I’m saying is uncomfortable to bear. Too, I know that we deplore the dark, and what we’re sensing there. Can’t you hear it’s cold breathing; can’t you feel its gloating stare? But indecision scares you more, so you’re too scared to care.
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Still, there's "hope" and "light" perceived, just there, at "Tunnels End!  That kingdom is at hand, foretold, but not one "sold," good friend.  The answers to hard questions, vexing, are not "found," beware! Those "answers" are but "faced," forthright, admitted and foursquare! 
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alienview@adelphia.net
http://www.alienview.net/
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Southpark Al