I am nine-sided,
But One dimensional.
Moldy like residual buildup in vegetation,
I birth with tiny, drunken, ballerina flies,
Looking to get stone sober,
But end up stone cold.
Scum sucking plastic pebbles of a fish tank,
Scrubbing with tongue,
And with tongue & cheek,
I hold a wish that someday I would grow legs and arms,
With hands! So I could peel my face off the bottom’s surface,
And maybe touch the light I only ever see.
I am one-sided,
But Nine dimensional.
My thoughts cannot convey themselves,
So they approbate inside my brain, and wait to be released like a bull pen
Into the wild pitching eve.
Beneath the sunlight,
Dividing thick fogs,
Sway left to Right, to
Left to Right, to…
As they promenade
through an ocean of sticky leaves,
Freshly pressed and covered
In a glistening slick of rain.
Life is temporary.
Death remains forever;
The fog fritters into the air above,
Revealing Maples, Oaks, and sparse Birches
That have given a part of themselves,
To feel the rhythm of hearts in love.
Death worries not for whom it takes,
It worships quantity.
In the upcoming distance,
Erect in a flourishing meadow,
A white house two stories tall,
Welcomes its owners Home.
Death is necessary.
But ends where they should not meet?
I guess that is reality.
He rests his fingers upon the frigid keys to his piano,
And begins with an E major chord. (always playing at sunup)
She waltzes ‘round the room,
Raising the blinds to let in the sun,
Opening windows to let in the fresh air,
And when she has finished,
She ensconces herself beside him,
Left leg pressed lightly against his right.
And he plays on.
I am the reams in vacuum sealed clear plastic wrapping, waiting to be ripped open.
Inside me are five hundred Oakwood, 8 and 1/2 by 11 sheets of paper, of which you write your death parchments on.
And when the deceased are forgotten, I’m the only documentation representing they ever existed.
When a person crumples me incomprehensible,
Tears me into polygenic shards,
Lets me slip from their fingertips into the snarling fire,
Those hands that let me go,
Let whoever they once knew go.
Maybe they do this to overlook an immediate departure,
Maybe they do this in denial of self realization,
But people do not see,
They have killed the last remnants that whoever existed,
And proof of their departure.
Forty dollars a ream, with the gold paint sprayed lightly on the edges for ceremonial appearances.
And when over 150,000 people die every day,
I sure help pillage from your taxes.
The trees you cut down to make me,
Slowly cripple your oxygen levels.
And when there are no trees left,
Then there will be no people left,
And without proper documentation,
You will have never existed.