Nothing Left to Save

What shall we do today?

We ain't got much to say.
You talk of stuff you've bought;
I lose my train of thought.

And I'm lost here in this place;

It's a plotless, empty tome.

I keep walking to first base,

But I'm ready to go home,

To the solitude I crave,

Cuz there's nothing left to save.

Isn't there something more

Than what we've settled for?

I think we should explore

Something beyond this door.

Cuz I'm lost here in this place;

It's a plotless, empty tome.

I keep walking to first base,

But I'm ready to go home,

To the solitude I crave,

Cuz there's nothing left to save.

Do you see that shifting Escher staircase?

Look at us in an unfocused Kodachrome.

We no longer talk about faith and grace.

We tune in, we tune out; all we do is roam.

And we're stuck here in this place.

In this plotless, empty tome?

I keep walking to first base,

Knowing I should head back home,

To the solitude I crave,

Cuz there's nothing. . .

Cuz there's nothing. . .

Said there's nothing here...

Nothing left to save.

© 2021 David Acosta

The New Dark Age

Mr. L. DaVinci went for a good, long walk;
Mona was waiting for him.
Stepped on some dog poop, landed on sidewalk and chalk.
A voice spoke, "Pickings are slim."

Apparently he had stepped into a vortex;
The future had dragged him away.
The voice said, "Try not to upchuck; view the apex
Of uninspired art on display."

Suddenly a languishing choir
Offerred up a sad lament.
Leo, don't you wince; don't expire.
You've got to let this choir vent.

And here's what the voices from the future sang:

Who banished the inspiration?
Who sealed the imagination,
The common sense,
The influence of the greats?
Hey, this is the era of spiritless art!
Novices and mindless experts, take center stage!

Truth wandered away with beauty;
They died on a tour of duty,
Combatting fools
Who break all rules, and equate
Crude and crass with creative. Junk a-la-carte!
Welcome to the Anti-Renaissance, the New Dark Age.

Mr. Dostoevsky thought he needed a break;
He wandered into the night.
Found a crystal ball, but what he saw made him quake.
A voice spoke, "Go home; go write...

Never mind the languishing choir;
Disregard their prophecy.
Fyodor, stick to your home fires;
What's ahead you need not see."

But once again, the voices from the future sang:

Who banished the inspiration?
Who sealed the imagination,
The common sense,
The influence of the greats?
Hey, this is the era of spiritless art!
Novices and mindless experts, take center stage!

Truth wandered away with beauty;
They died on a tour of duty,
Combatting fools
Who break all rules, and equate
Crude and crass with creative. Junk a-la-carte!
Welcome to the Anti-Renaissance, the New Dark Age.

Mr. Dickens and Miss Austen,
Stay the course; remain where you are.
Don't wander; don't expose your eyes
To the horrors of what's to come.

Mr. Bach and Miss Pavlova,
The future is a world bizarre.
You need not see what you'd despise.
Oh, how you'd shun what we've become.

~   ~   ~

Oh, what have we become?

What have we become?
Creative minds and inspired hearts, step into the cage;
Welcome to the Anti-Renaissance, the New Dark Age.

© 2021 David Acosta