A Corpse In a Cradle

I’m growing up in the most marketed-to generation, ever. It’s not even close. Our brains melt, while the rich folk propose a toast.

But, something deep within us sounds with alarm. Even in our stupor, we know not all is well. We’ve quietly seen the unhappy folk that came before us: with full garages and empty living rooms. Dare I say, we want nothing to do with it: nothing to do with the empire of marble you worship yourselves in.

I’ve grown up in a wandering generation, lost in a sea of stimulation, drowning in confusion and anger. We know what’s wrong but we have no idea what’s right. So we cling to the left - or perhaps the right, and praise the false kings we call elected officials.

We’ve watched with desperation, as those same officials, those rich men north of Richmond, sit in ivory towers as the suicide rate climbs, matching the rates of incarceration, and homelessness. We’ve topped the charts with school shootings and overdoses, all the while those at the top of the charts bang gongs and whisper lies to our souls.

We’ve been led to confuse beauty for attention, intimacy for interaction, and art for entertainment.

The enemy came for our souls, our hearts and our minds, while we were yet babes. He crept to our cradle and with pillow in hand strangled us, the muffled cry of our souls falling on ears far from deaf.

And the worst part is, he was invited in.

“Where did the dreamers go?” I hear the voices of our elders asking. “Where are the strong of heart and sound of mind?”

“A corpse in a cradle,” I say, a tear in my eye, “where you left us, infinitely connected, but all the same alone, to die.”