The Old Eagle

Posted on March 22, 2014

The Old Eagle

      As an old Eagle, battle scarred and cynical, I still soar, high and alone, through the grey, damp soaked, wintery skies.  
Lightning flashes incessantly, and the dull kerr-whump of distant thunder rolls alternates with the sharp, explosive crackling detonation resonating all around me.  It is cold.  And I am weary.
If I was wise, I would find a safer place, to roost, and seek the easy comfort of non-thought.
The pleasant oblivion of deliberated complacence.

      I would do as so many of my brethren do. I would engineer my acceptance of a convenient status quo. It would be easier on the mind. But instead, I stretch my battered wings out, and force myself higher. For I want to see. Further. Into the future. Over the horizon. And for that, I must climb. Higher. Higher still. It is hard for me.  I always struggled, where others soared effortlessly. I always floundered, where others excelled. I always came last, trying desperately, whilst listening to the scorn and open contempt of my fellows. But I, alone it seems, still want to fly. I force myself into the air, although my aching body screams in protest. My mind, cowardly and weak, offers me the inner vision of resignation. A quick dive for home, and shelter. My own private little cave, where I can pretend that all is well. That all is under control.
That all is as it must be.

     A rain shower assaults me.  A fierce headwind. Drops as cold as ice hack at my face. Through the veil of mist and rain drenched saturation, I spy the looming, yet distant ridge. I see it for a moment, clear and stark, and then it disappears once more. I know it is coming. I am prepared.
My gaze travels far. I see into towns and villages. Into houses and rooms. Into hearts and minds.

       I see him, proud and confident, wearing designer clothing. If he knows, or has heard of the overseas sweat shops where his clothing was forged by the sweat of indentured labor, his actions show no empathy. No awareness. Bathing in pride, his swagger communicates only righteousness and entitlement.

      I see her, beautiful in a glamorous definition of the word, proud and confident, snorting cocaine with her upwardly mobile friends.  They revel in their rebelliousness, their youth, and their contempt for authority. If she knows, or has heard of the carnage wrought by the drug trade in Mexico, the deaths, the violence and the endless suffering, her actions show no empathy. No awareness. Bathing in the blinding, dazzling light of short-lived, privileged youth, her deportment communicates only righteousness and entitlement.

       I see them, knocking back the drinks and eyeing the expensive girls. I see them, arrogant in their expensive, well tailored suits. Drunken with their own self valuation. Based on half million dollar salaries, unlimited expense accounts, and the largesse of tax payer funded bailouts. In their actions and pronouncements I see or hear no humility. No diffidence. No respectful questioning of the road they travel.  No consideration for other working men. I see only greed, and pride, arrogance and coveting. Desire, and illusion. The endless hunger for more baubles.

       I see them, those mighty windbag orators in Congress and the Senate, thundering forth the party line. Looking to their own, short term benefit, willfully ignoring the long term consequences of their actions. Grab what you can, while you can.  Baubles.

       I see them, the slavish followers, the disciples, the acolytes, the happy-clappies. Those who obey, unquestioningly, with feeble minds, easily led, warped, and molded. The scant information foot soldiers, blinded by absurd promises, outrageous logic, unsustainable living, and the expectation of lavish gifts, forever.
   
       And I circle, unseen, high in the sky, tired and weary, old and beaten, and I see. Over the hill, beyond that ridge, through the uncertain mists of stormy weather, the coming events. The inevitable implosion. The cataclysm that will open. The riots, the panic, the fear, the crime, and the desolation.
It is lonely up here. It is cold. My wings are beat.

       If I was wise, I would find a safer place, to roost, and seek the easy comfort of non-thought. The pleasant oblivion of deliberated complacence. I would do as so many of my brethren do. I would engineer my acceptance of a convenient status quo. It would be easier on the mind. But instead, I stretch my battered wings out, and force myself higher.

       I wish to soar. To think. To dream.
     
       I have no wish for your land.  

Francis Meyrick


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