Down Below

From the depth of
an urbane urban
twisted turning place,
it calls to me like
that single clear note
raising high above an
aria laying waste to
the melody below.

The VOICE speaks.
Heed it? Or drift,
as I often do,
away from it?

Disregard it.

I align with the
rumble-tumble rag-tag
rough-weathered faces
of boredom and monotony.
But we stand together!
Crowded down,
bunkered in
too tight.
And I long to breathe
a patch of fresh air
or swim in clear and cold waters.
A glimpse of God gently seen
in the eyes of a stag
or the crest of a hawk.

But instead I wait.
Filling time with everything, and doing nothing.
Scurrying ratlike in my vain intensities,
like the prey far down below.

I never bother a glance up.
The hawk dives, and
devours me in a single,
smooth movement.

And before I know
I’m in trouble,
I’m dead.

Sacrificed at an unholy altar
of ambition and apathy.
Knowing my potential
but doing nothing to attain it.