Awakening on its journey, a smell of slight decay. Leaves sloughing from the canopy. A zombie losing the safe promise of summer fruits. Scurry and hurry to the beat of a sacred, albeit fatalistic, yearly routine. Close to where we started, but no less sweet to see, the two by two's; the families; their long sleeves
a cherished few returnFriend, I’m sorry, what even happened? Tolerable enough that "hey" would do.
like a boomerangI cannot stay, only come back. Tell me what you need. A wax figure constant to the flame. How do you see fit?
picking cherries out of lifeHusks on the ground, a shell of a man. The kernels rotten, ugly and obscene.
Universal responsibility without universal consequence. A convenient argument for those who never slept without food in their stomach, lived without love in their past, and never suffered doubt for their chances or passion to prevail.
You could walk on glass for these people and they would ask you to take your shoes and socks off.
The poetry exists in ignorance of my musings.
It clings to the crevices of life
in the nooks of idle minds and stolen glances of would-be lovers.
It does not care if I write,
though, I know that I must.
Leave your scrap. I am the excrement of the world. I crawl to the edge of the trash pile, salt it with earth and devour. Leave your disgust. I am the crazy you loathe and the strange you fear. I sing platitudes like a skipped record, scratching the cliff holds for dear life. Lay me in the dirt. I suffocate there thousands of years watching the strata pass. Cast me your stones and throw me in the pit. Belabor your glorious effort at my humble expense. If all else fails, burn the witch.
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