dead smooshed lizard.
palm tree with prickly thorns. No,
not thorns. Spikes. Stay away.
Do not try to love me. Do not get
too close. Go away with your
double-edged swords, your words dripping with what was once love but now is only
an echo in the ocean. ripples around
dying fish. Ancient horseshoe crabs
connecting in futile attempts to secure the future. Boiling waters of the volcanoes. Eruptions of anger and the decline into
melancholy. Coo coo, morning dove,
mourning dove, coo. Your sad song is all
there is. The traffic that passes does
not exist. It is in our collective
conscious. The instinct that once was is
replaced by television. Flickers of
light. Thumbs up and hearts. What do you like? You cannot exist without liking. Or if nobody knows. Dim white lights in the morning dawn. Somewhere
there is a beautiful sunrise. But not
here. Not for all to see. Obscured.
Removed. No longer part of your
life. We do not rise and fall with the
sun anymore. We rise and fall to the dim
screens in the palms of our hands. Read this,
palm-reader. What can you see? Do you see my future? Full of likes and hearts. Is my heart full? Will it overflow? Will it be empty? Is it already? Will it crush my soul? Will my soul run away to the open land of
sunrises and sunsets, roaming buffalo, ocean tides, horizon lines with endless
skies?
