Ruins of Renaissance

In the morning haze,
while dreams still cling to thought,
still hope for continued existence,
despite the odds,
the world is a different place;

In these moments
I see faces both pure and foul,
but faces always one of the two.
I see hands extended to assist,
others flexing messages of threat,
but neither dare haunt with ambiguity.

The morning illuminates
a landscape of glowing progress,
spotlighting the pockets of decay,
but the map is clear,
the way it true,
and my future foot falls noble each.

The morning haze,
shepherded by the wishes of dying dreams,
bolsters the soul,
yet stands it unaware at the precipice of the fall
to the wakeful now.
The world is not a dream,
nor subject to them.
The world is not shaped by thoughts
of untarnished dichotomy,
but, too often, perverted by them.

As I tumble from that glorious cliff,
as I twist and turn,
attempting to circumvent the gravity of now,
one thought escapes my panicked breath,
and I scream:

“Do something!”