“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, April 12, 2018
Deconstruction
What more is there
to discover, look around
we are always finding
new ways to die.
*
Good humans finish their plates
last,
only to find
nobody to tell-
savoring is a learned skill.
*
Ritual releases the mind
from its chain-
if only we could be less
superstitious, sixth senses would
evolve.
*
Not saying-None listened-
Nor inklings or outright protest
overcame the decomposed granite
of speechlessness.
*
We tend to build things up.
*
We pretend to be the designers.
*
I found myself
looking away.
*
All the death
has been done
before.
Photograph by Carleton Watkins [CC0], Devils Canyon, Geysers, Looking Down' c. 1868-70, via Wikimedia Commons.
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