Shine

Child, when did it die, the light inside?  A decision at some point in time? A bitter, free fall dive or mournful, listless slide? A whirlwind ride, or the long wave goodbye to the ebbing tide of potential energy stored once inside, where hope, now lost, did once reside? Was it pride? A call to leave some ghost behind? Were you fleeing fear or chasing gold? Doing just as momma told? “Leave the fold, go break the mold.” Blink once — oops — now you’re too old. Oh, how the fractured crowds do shout, “Come down from those clouds and join our fight, embrace our plight, your inheritance a swath of blight. Child, douse your flame, and shroud your light.”

When did you exchange your crayons for pens, imagination for common sense? Spontaneous cards, i’s dotted with hearts, yellow, five-pointed floating stars in waxy blue sky, smiling sun shining on stick-figure everyone. Notebook sketches etched in a muddled daze on dreary days, just your hand and the page, while outside it rains, but, hey, got no plans anyways. So paint the moon green and the cow red, nobody said you couldn’t. But that was when horses had wings, and fish could sing in pastel works of blooming spring. Life once expressed in colors bold, now gray and cold. 

When did the road — the path to the unknown — lose its hold on your fascination? Destinations unseen, and in between: infinity — constellations across the nation drawn in highways and rest stops, in shops kept up by moms and pops, in podunks and metropolises perched on mile-high hilltops. The road, how it beckoned, “Don’t delay another second. Get drivin’, get hitchin’, get glidin’ and don’t stop until you’re nowhere, until the air tastes of a strange new somewhere — a flavor extraordinaire.” The road, once your liberation, promised salvation without condemnation — reincarnation by way of the interstate, ‘cross sprawling, astral Dakota plains. A siren call from way out yonder, the distance made your pulse grow stronger. But how the road’s become a rut! Same ol’ brick inside your gut as you ride the track — pavement cracked — forth-and-back, flat tires, stop signs and stale repeating lines.

When did artists cease to inspire, fail to fan your passion’s fire? The poet’s verse both a balm and curse — impugned the ego, refreshed the soul, nurtured part and whole. The composer’s melody that set you free, that conjured realms of fantasy, of galactic ecstasy and cosmic rays, pulsar bursts and ancient worlds. Storytellers whose fables saved, taught you to be brave, ignited a craving for life abundant — beyond the hedge, up to the ledge, off the edge. But you’ve let your heroes die, entombed, their treasures piled in darkened rooms. Kindling stored out of sight, your ears plugged with sound bites and platitudes trite. 

This fragment world’s spun round, but child, you’re not bound by clocks or hands or kings’ demands. Assume not the phantom gravity, rebuke the gallery’s depravity — the enshrinement of maturity that snuffed your luminosity.  Too long defined by black and white lines. Bring back the light! Let full spectrum alight upon dandelion bouquets, finger paint, and molded clay. Too long have chains held you in place. Bring back the light! Take flight on 66 or Cali 5, pat death on the back and go be alive on tawny cliffside, on towering skyline, on howling, shimmering shoreline. Too long have your heroes been ignored, muzzled, abandoned behind locked doors. Bring back the light! Take delight, absorb the lore and major chords. And what’s more, be sure to hide no more. No time left to cower, so shower us, child, with your reckless spirit wild, without shame, untamed so that I and we may be complete in this jigsaw disharmony. Fight back your retreat, admit no defeat; just, please, dear child speak! Silenced too long, your voice like a song, like the sun. Bring us dawn.