Ode to the Forever Gone.

Getting and spending wasting our being          
slaves not to body's needs but wants of eye,          
those greedy-orbs set up high seeing things          
beyond hand's grasp becomes, so highly prized!          
          
Long before our spoken words could be wrote          
or passing time told by brass-necked tin clocks,          
the prize was on the hoof and in the wind          
hunger for it gripped the belly and  throat          
the price of that prize, sweat and thrown flint rocks          
the only way to reach it, swift lithe limbs.          
         
O to live again in our human spring          
I hear this often in rhymes soft writ sighs,          
to have surfeit of things honest toil brings          
wrought from under those ancient boundless skies.          
         
Supping Adam's ale, sporting Joseph's coat          
stitched by Eve's needles strong enough to mock          
the fiercest weather, silver ermine trimmed,          
bringing home newly slain black mountain-goat,          
provender, round which your family flock          
just as their setting sun, begins to dim.          
         
Richer by far then, than banker or King,          
more satisfying than supersized buys,          
sweeter than advertisment jingles sing          
" To own our product you would kill, or die "          
" You'll never be alone with Our Filtered Smokes "          
" Your food cooks superior in our crocks "          
" Be sure to buy our filtered milk, it's skimmed!"          
" And, things go better with..." Oh! It's a joke!          
on our spendthrift life spent this way, tick-tock          
to keep some faceless folk's gold coffers filled...          
         
O to be with those long-gone folk, trading,        
bartering obsidian blades for deer-hides,          
swop bird-bone flutes for pretty ankle rings          
I desire both behind closed dreaming eyes...          
   
My dream finds fine, white, seamless buckskin cloaks        
trimmed with red-rabbit tails and black-skinned Brock          
so softly supple they twirl... craft-folk thinned,          
on which I'm allowed brief envious strokes          
for such I would disdain all future skirts          
but wake, to blow my flute, against the wind...