A Prose Poem

Another day knocks on my eager window.

It wants nothing but to be looked through.

The opposite of us all.

Feeling irksome

About the word.

These single distinct elements,

An alchemy of linguistics, history, transference, and bullshit.

Does our varied use of them make them so, or were they that before us?

Words are bartering tools,

And we are the ones

To construct or destroy.

To go inside the word? Outside to contradict?

Perhaps everywhere so to unify?

What are words but life triggering all

Senses — love, hate, sight, touch -

Some smell in there

If it’s the good kind

But all kind is good, all kind is king.

I will never be excused by time.

I will always be within time.

Unless I get some of that good before death stuff

In the form of noxious anxiety

To take me to a pixelated place

Where sounds are shapes and amorphous sentients

Of pre-ancient times

Whisper to me in a child-like way (secrets secrets are no fun).

Yet they are not children.

They are stars made of dust.

Like we are,

Cast out like lepers

To reach a place of deeper solitude:

Where the trees cannot even throw shade

Where the rain can no longer wet with self-righteous mist

Where the sun can no longer burn or warm or soothe

Where nature -

Time’s little bitch -

No longer recognizes my gait

My stench

Or even my look.

I am no longer Her child.

I am no longer Her parasite

Because I have changed,

Abandoning all She has given me.

I fulfill the curse of humanities need

And go forth helpless.

Progress. Expand. Innovate.

Exploit. Destroy. Forget.

No Matter the Cost.

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