Rebellion

The past looks into the future
with a glass eye

I see how my eye hovers over
the choices made yesterday

Lose the faith that all will
be the same each time we
send for that
squirrel of choice

Tear up the recipe of insightful
and correct words,
as if we speak with
food cooked in
a microwave oven

Have a morose disaster,
fan the flames of play,
get lost inside the spirals
and the curlicues

Crawl out from under
that shelter of
Comfort, and
rip out the roots
of well-behaved

Copyright 2011 by Thomas Flynn