Nameless poem found while I was cleaning a shelf (1999ish?)

There is a loud silence in the museum.

It is not heavy or oppressive,

Rather light with whispers in the quiet.

Expressions of lives.

Declarations from the past.

What were these things they wore?

The tin-thin gold pressed with animal processions and

The obvious longing for some glimpse at God.

From the molten core of the Earth,

Choruses call to me in amazement,

“Cry, meaning!

The polished stones you wear around your thin necks

Will not save you from yourselves.

This is the beginning and the end,

The stultifying sacrifice of desire.

Cry, meaning!”

What do the guards in the hall know of these adventures?

The one to the left of the door coughs into his fist.

His eyes scurry around this darkened room,

Suspicious.

Does he hear what the chorus sang to me?

I am not a believer,

No suppliant mass bowing to greatness.

I am not a little red riding hood

Lost in the metaphor of wolf and grandmother.

What is this it sings to me about life,

The jewel of the heart

Glowing brightly in the mesh

Of a spirituality I do not understand?

They say some men are hollow.

They say some men are weak.

Some men are security at museums.

Some men are all these things

When all they can be is humbled.

The core pulses with the need to be heard,

While we mine and wear little pieces of their message

Unaware of the tremble under the soil.

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~ by Athena on May 29, 2014.

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