Gilded cages keep us captive
as we glide about inside
filling up on our homemade iced coffees, like paupers
cooking with what we have in the house
It’s a reality TV show, but it’s reality:
Relief washes over some,
we don’t have to go here, do that, not running to work, to school
no alarm clock, no snooze, no schedule.
A balm, a blessing, these gilded cages, tying us up while freeing us, in liberation
The news swirls about: death after death. Name after name.
Prayer has never been more fervent.
I have Stockholm Syndrome, craving for my captor to stay.
Don’t make me go back
to that treadmill to that schedule to consumerism and nonstop noise and expectations and emails, inboxes that never empty, errands that never end, noise that never stops, events that never cease, expectations so loud I can’t even think if they are coming from within or without.
Nothing could make it all stop. Get up tomorrow and do it all over again.
By day you will crave night, and by night you will wait endlessly for day, that’s the curse.
Gilded cages are the curse, but maybe, they are the key.
Where’s the key? It’s in the cage.
Nothing less powerful than a microscopic speck could have created the cages that toppled the universe, that shut up your “busy busy” life, that laughed at the economy and sports and shopping and all the gods we worshipped.
Even Amazon is no longer, really, Prime. The god of the amazon has weakened.
So dance in your gilded cages. Dance, because soon the doors of your captivity will swing open, and then, who are you, where are you, and what will you do?
Where are your gods now?
The God of the gilded cage has spoken. Man plans and God laughs, but you will laugh last.