the plague of genetic destiny
is a finely written epitaph.
success, as a mind state,
is the accumulation of side effects.
the sense of open focus
is on spotting redundancy
while love is the playing field
gasping for light and players.
living is an expanding narrative
on every reactive account.
for breathing seems like
an endless supply of ammo
and sexuality is incidental tallies
to balance the books.
even movement of itself
is a prayer against fear
while music, driven by lyrics,
is just popularized unconscious venting.
there is the plea to be aware
beyond experience-junkie impressions.
the silent callout is,
either 'take steps or grow wings',
is in everyone's face.
we all labor
as parasitical thought,
fearing the worst
as becoming the last to know.
the integrity of our self-consciousness
is a confounding rhetoric,
where conclusions thrive,
as the raw materials of,
"we are so ever trapped",
wrapped in bundles of urgency.
nothing on the news menu
are we hungry to eat.
but if it's not too much trouble,
some discomfort and angst
with a side order of malaise
will get us through the day . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment