In the murmur of modernity, a disease courses through the veins
In the murmur of modernity, a disease courses through the veins,
A silent malaise, binding hearts and thoughts in heavy chains,
Where no one thinks, feels, or dares to care deeply anymore,
No spark ignites, no spirit ventures beyond mundane chores.
All emotion drifts like whispers in a forgotten dream,
Beliefs eroded, lost, in an unbroken monotone regime,
Each soul devoured by the pursuit of their own comfortable zone,
God damn mediocrity, the silent parasite that’s grown.
We dwell in mental deserts, vast and devoid of rain,
Where the river of passion has dried up, leaving only pain,
A sterile landscape where boredom makes its nest,
And every heart, though it beats, feels oppressed.
The stars above, once guides, now pale and far,
Their light drowned out by neon's unceasing jar,
No cosmic wonder, no ancient creed inspires,
Only humble life without a trace of fire.
This malady of spirit, this plague of the soul,
Steals the colors from our dreams, making them dark as coal,
No fervent cry for justice, no poetic flight,
Only shadows of disinterest in the realm of night.
Yet in melancholy, a whisper soft as dusk,
Of dreams once lived, of purposes robust,
If only we could break the chains of this affliction’s hold,
Rise from mediocrity, let our spirits unfold.
In the quiet corners of our hearts, let’s rekindle forgotten flames,
Recall the ancient stories, the legendary names,
For in the depth of feeling, in care’s profound embrace,
We may recapture the light, in darkness find our place.
Rise, dreamers, in the twilight's glow,
Let passion burn, reveal your true colors,
Defy the creeping mediocrity, let your spirit soar,
For in the deep beat of the heart, true life intensifies.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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