Future in Source

The future is warm
Ripe with possibility.

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What world could we conceive
If we held the hand of Source?
You’re right atheists
The dogma of religion doesn’t work,
It’s corrupted.
But Source is different,
Warmer, and emanating spectral energy
In wisps drawn ever down.
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What world could we conceive
In limitless energy?
What world
When all are infused,
Our hearts awash with love,
Our bodies safe
And our fears released
So the weapon in our hand
Becomes the relic
Of an age surpassed,
So we may rise
And be the sun
On the very first dawn,
As we begin again
To work the world
With our hands
That are clean of brutality,
Empty of hateful past,
Naked like the child
Who comes unfettered
And glowing whole
To our doorsteps.

Legacy

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We, the future
Froth upon the past,
Like lights girdering
The stanchioned and cemented rise
Of our skyward technological pride:
Apparently so different to our
Top-hatted and bonneted selves.
Yet sunk in the sump,
Our architecture founds itself
In skirts of steam empire
And Britannia
Greater than wishfulness.

I propose
The top hat to be
Present and near,
Not relinquished or pushed aside.
We are merely bareheaded
And not in the least bit changed.

©A Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017