Days Inn (wiersz klasyka)

Days Inn, days out,
Success at the art of not competing,
But just being here !
The smoke of flowers
Disinfect our haunted spaces.
Aroma, amore.
Bring us more of that life we asekd for.
The phone rings in the ether,
And the responce is silence.
Our swift feet are dragged by
The wheels of modern man's
Self-justified industrial overload.
Our minds are distracted from living,
Making our lives unmemorable and stale.
Opportune appointments,
The shaman and his ointments,
Discovering that primal instincts
Cannot be traded with modern parapsychology
Or any other of man's new,
Scientific, dulled tools of backward progress.
The frozen lakes resembling celtic knots
Maze their way into our unrecovering consciousness.
When at peace, we war with our oars
At friendly beavers
Driving off our boats, at play.
Man is the self-centered,
Dull-perceptioned creature of existence.
It's time to balance our science
And minds, logic, with
The spirit-that-moves-through-all-things.