Anthropological Neuroses

Like slaves rejoicing in the secret night,
We are intoxicated and feeding on dreams-
Voracious and violent,
Beholding red vast galaxies with optimistic eyes.

We exult in diversions until we have the sense
To suffer or else die;
Or until we feel like Sisyphus,
But turn instead and create new lies,
Discontent enough to know we must deny.

We live trying to ignore and forget
The eviscerating dagger
Through which misery revives,
Eminence and faith seducing us,
Insisting that it does not hurt to try.

But it hurts each and every time
Fresh wounds strip us of disguise,
Animate our memories- expose and re-open
The bruised sunspots, the scar-tissued flesh
Where the ghosts of pain and confused failure reside.

But most can not really resign-
Convinced, even if just in secret,
That somewhere in the immensity of space,
Distilled and remote,
The sacrosanct lotus of ultimate bliss unfolds.