poem: Illusions by Dandelion de la Rue

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Wise and worried poet
sending word pictures
eulogizing dead illusions
and sorrowing over
the evil charades
that grow up in
their places.

My dear illusions
I loved you
I saw you
luring generations
into complacency
We are the thinkers
We are the leaders
We are the saviors
of the World
They said.

Who knew that they
were born in fascist camps
to brainwash and mislead
and plant the lies
we loved?
I cannot bury you
with honors,
My false friends,
my false illusions,
but I can bury you
with angry tears.

And now we ask
the question.
The big one.
Are we the evil ones?
Are we an evil plague
crafted by the devil
to prosper and destroy?

Late night thoughts
Not quite disappearing
with violent and capricious day.
Do I dare invoke
My freedoms to speak
my thoughts
and say, out loud,
perhaps a shrub
is not a mighty oak
and not a burning bush
and is McDonald’s really worth
5,000 nomad lives?

But Truth
slithers in
like a terrier
scratching at the door.
Some thoughts
won’t stop knocking
and I see glimmers
here and there
lights going on
as others rise
to let the terrier in.

And poets take the
wandering thoughts
and carry them
through the harshness
of their hells
to the little outposts
into the forts and
into the settlements
and beyond,
telling the world
This isn’t what we thought
This wasn’t our dream
This isn’t what we wanted
This isn’t what we loved
We didn’t see
our cloven hooves and tails.
If only good and evil
didn’t wear
such clever disguises.

But maybe now we know
and maybe now we see.
Hope is always
the last one
to climb out of
the forbidden box,
and Hope grows stronger
when we sing Her songs.