table
salt—
sodium-chloride
locking
in
another
flood in wait
cupboard’s
dusty—
an
extension
of
what we keep
for
sustenance
in
our jars of clay—
tamper-proof—preventing
another
early wake
end.
point. turn.
a
new arithmetic has been observed—it crushes on the physical geometry we just
have to learn—an ancillary construction’s hiding space—a distraction, a
disgrace—a fake stir of optimism—for a scene based entirely upon pessimistic sets
of codes—when discovery disrupts the guise we had formed, it disassembles all
the equations we’ve ever known—the only beauty we’ve ever worn—deconstructing
our place of home.
a
nauseous epidemic.
anxiety
laden nerves.
paranoid—and
rightly so—
an
underworld erected—from the trust and freedom love’s allotted us.
From
the many we make few—the espionage grows and grows until it tires
too—loneliness abounds, even when good hearts surround and the graphed
parabolas never fail; they never fall—
self
placed Landmines erupt-explode—triggered by the auxiliary education we so foolishly
thought we would need to know—because of form, logic lost—a probability gambled
upon, one too which the odds we thought we could beat—yet blinded by the arcs
and shape—we deemed it a chance we had to take—opportunities like this are
rare—amnesia of all we had simply disappears—all that was gets strained then
lost— the superficial signs that led us astray—the most negative of
causalities—where no one wins and the opportunity to start again—well, that die
had been long since tossed—
alone
again—first time since, what’s it been? Twenty-five years or so—empty house,
empty home—friends grew busy, friends don’t answer their phones—all for what,
all for what? Twenty-four-thirty-six-twenty-four—just numbers, random-strange—just
memories—what an accomplishment—even if I chose to speak the lore—just look at
me, look at me—even I wouldn’t believe a single word—strike that—I’d believe
the part about the guy that’s lost it all.
end.
point.
turn-
where?
