The Death of Wonder

We used to look up and wonder.  Now, we know all the answers.  

We would dream of the moon and beyond.  Now, we argue over dinosaurs.  And these old bones would marvel in the miracle we call life.  I suppose somewhere between the dinosaurs and the heavens, arrogance sits on some throne as we look to crown ourselves rulers of each others lives.  Because the self absorbed cannot govern.  They exist to merely be anointed.   Once upon a time, no one wanted to be king.

We used to pray before our meals and before sleep would settle in.  Now, we talk to ourselves as if strangers are in our clothes.  And the emperor remains naked yet no one dares to tell him so.  I suppose somewhere between the vanity lies a creature cloaked in self loathing. 

Once upon a time, we would lend the shirt off our back to the man standing in the cold.  Now, that shirt has a price tag and in red ink it's marked our soul.

We used to look straight ahead and wonder.  Now, we are frozen in our fear.
We would dream about tomorrow.  Now, we argue how we got here. 

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought I missed the train.  And that woman who once loved me bought a ticket away from here.  I suppose the blind are leading the myopic while all the phony superlatives have become hypnotic.  And I wait in the pouring rain for another train to deliver her back to me.  But I know, tomorrow will leave me wondering where exactly could she be.

We used to talk about the weather as a form of courtesy.  Now, we awkwardly stare in silence as we drown in our own thoughts.  Ideas have been replaced by theories from the lost.  And these old bones are wandering in a desert of self doubt.  Because famine to the unloved is merely writers block.  I suppose this world is all a stage for the actors to meander about.  Somewhere behind the applause is an audience thirsty from this drought.  Because all original thought has been cannibalized in a mutiny so to speak.  Gone is all our wonder.  Gone is all the mystique.

And these old bones are tired; these old bones are weak.

We used to wonder about those stars and our place in the universe.   Now, we're staring down at dirt; dwelling on all that hurts.  I suppose we don't know all the answers and dinosaurs aren't extinct.  Not until, someone tells us exactly what to think.

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought she missed the train.  I will keep on waiting for her to return back to me. 

The end of all that's good is always preceded by the death of curiosity.