A lachrymose ebullition,
unable to be muffled by its producer,
is postulated idiosyncratic,
and erupts behind locked doors of each abode.
Remembrance trailing each hastily inhaled sob
of each adolescent informed of responsibility,
and of how appearances are more important
than actualities,
but not the stones it chains to their feet,
nor how they must repress sentiment.
If the building blocks of Stonehenge
were to frolic and wriggle voluntarily,
what force would fight the gravity
always pressing downwards on those below,
from collapsing the entire structure?
Without convenience to focus on sentiment
the neglected portion of our humanity
congeals until it can no longer be contained,
until it metastasizes from heart to brain.
Until the bulldozer rolls through you without resistance,
to create a more scenic landscape,
or else,
a multistoried parking garage for others to leave
their possessions they do not require at the moment.
Inaudible to distracted passers-by
wrapped up in their causeries,
of the scores of their preferent Colosseum teams,
or else,
sensational stories relayed by jovial faces
from the teleprompter directly to their subconscious.
This outburst,
anticipated to reverberate only within the confines
of the relative safety of this shelter,
until the sound waves of each echo
slowly
lose
momentum.
Who could be expected to hear each cog,
slowly being worn down,
while hidden within a working machine?
When those that convince the populace
that their lament will be heard and mended
urgently cram currency into their ear canals
when their position has allowed their own
muffled cries to cease.
This begs a question from the masses.
A question, muffled, and without words.
Each raised hand stretched upwards
as the inattentive teacher ignores,
causes another hand to reach skyward.
This populace never intended for their own
whimpers to be heard,
not heard, but heeded.
While the torment of their tear filled convulsions
bulldozes through them,
not heeded, but auscultated.
Yet, these proceedings were never attended.
Not even by those same
that attempt to muffle their own ebullition
within the sound-proofed walls of the shelters
that they conceal themselves in.
Each, alone, quietly succumbs to the pressures
of waiting out
jovial sentiment with uncomfortable contentment.
Waiting,
to not exhale each murmur,
but to consume the promises they are fed
by those same whose ears are plugged with green,
until the protecting walls grow bars
and all are provided with solitary confinement.
Until it is only logic that guides the thought
that each is truly and irreversibly alone.
Until all are singled out in their struggles,
until they are uncomfortable recognizing
that they exist.
Until, separately, each attempts to smooth
their worn edges,
as to not break down the machine.
To hide the nicks that they have endured
lest they should cause,
a momentary lapse,
in productivity.
Each gear is further deformed
by this bending and contorting,
as the fear of protest causes them
to endure the pressure of warping
to try to fit a position
that they were not molded for.
Until they believe that unrepressed sentiment
has been made illegal,
and that unmuffled voices
will only cause more harm.
Yet, there are those that hear,
and heed,
and auscultate,
each muffled cry.
Each weeping convulsion,
and the pressure caused by keeping them in.
For those,
each turn they make within the machine,
is made with the sole purpose
of removing mufflers.
Until each muffled sentiment is uninhibited,
moved by the tsunami of a zeitgeist,
and ascends toward the empyrean.
Until each cultural center covered by a filter
inverts the filter's position
to collect sentiment from the base,
and send the congealed, concentrated,
neglect of humanity to the precipice.
Each syllable combining with the next,
working in unison,
as those that participate in primal dances,
to take a new form.
Not even those that release this unmuffled sentiment
know the form this conglomeration will adopt,
but it will move from one coast to the next.
A tidal wave of tears that will push
from one corner of humanity to the next,
until we again understand that it is acceptable
to feel our pain in unison.
So that we can begin to make progress
on the alterations that are necessary to the machine.
So that we are once again able to produce something,
besides awkward struggle.
So that we can stand on the highest precipice
of every unmuffled sentiment,
with unimpeded hope that one day we may relearn how
to hear, and heed, and auscultate,
happiness in unison.
