Who now speaks of joy?
Pleasure: yes, that's true,
The self-concerned calculus of
Cost/benefit, input/output;
What's-in-it-for-me-guv?
Even leisure's a pleasure,
A commodity like all else,
Purchased/processed/consumed, like
So much readymeals.
Love, that intimation of the
Power and gloy of the universe,
Can't compete.
Seeking redemption from one other,
We invest all in it, and
Cry upon its descent from
Novelty's intoxication.
Too narrow.
Too shallow.
Only in drugs do we feel free,
Otherwise the fear of others,
And the pain they can cause,
Leaves us hidden, behind our walls
Bricked with diffidence and doubt.
Awkwardly we reach out,
Delicate anemones;
Our fear of exposure maddens
Into caustic spleeen.
How we scowl and scorn,
deride and dismiss.
Too sad for words.
Too sad.
Joy:
Unabashed unalloyed delight,
Spontaneous affirmnation of existence,
Accepting all, open to all,
Laughing, like a child at play,
Envisioning the world with a new-seeing eye.
Existence! Ecstasy! Epiphany!
Delight! Life!
Joy!
