Bent
From the ghosts we carry, daily,
How much we knew we only thought we knew —
As beautiful, in leather binding, we
Stand perched upon the shelves of
Our denial

The smell of binding, permeates
The air that’s seen the shadows of
What was our best intention: we,
The afterthoughts of all the thought-before,
Like echoes in forgotten caves,
The tomb of innocence.

Where is the harmony once felt?
Where is the melody once sung?
The singers stand on risers, now, unheard:
To face an audience
Whose backs are turned, and faces are up-lit.

What does it mean to understand?
What does it mean to add to human progress?
Is it more than just a phantom, shadows
Of an eidolon; a word forgotten like
The way we used to organize
The universe?