(Read from the bottom up)
~kns


At the bottom.
Old news.
Dead.
Nothing but deflated.
Now I’m no one.
the sneering planes.
the disdainful clouds,
the sarcastic stars,
The mocking planets
Past the laughing heavens.
I’m falling now.
POP.
It backfires.
Everything.
Every ***** trick.
Every lie.
I use everything I have to get up there.
I struggle.
Higher.
Higher.
Higher.
I need to go
Yet, I’m not satisfied.
The imperfect heavens.
The shoddy planets.
The second-rate stars.
The mediocre clouds.
Beyond the substandard planes.
I’m at the top.
To dwell in the shining heavens.
To greet the egotistical planets.
To outshine the fading stars.
to test the pressure of the atmosphere.
my greedy desire,
I must fulfill my need,
Higher than any cloud has ever reached.
height.
To float higher than
height.
in a competition of
To beat each plane
than to go higher.
Nothing else matters
Higher.
Higher.
Higher.
I’m floating now.
Freedom.
I grab the chance to get out.
releases its grip.
It gets distracted and
some cruel being.
Chained to the ground by the claws of
At the bottom.

Little interests come and go as fleeting as a Sunday,
time spent polishing stones when no one really cares.
A lifetime of measuring time, too little or too much
like a drug dependency that’s never quite right.
Too much and we panic, turn psychotic, too little and
our shelves get littered with knick-knacks.
 
In between we're in lines, create lists and  other “to-do’s”
while standing in said lines. The herding effect makes us
feel small and unimportant like 1 of a 1000 in 5 box cars
of gypsies and Jews taken east on parallel rails.
 
When the present fades away our todays will be haunted
by yesterdays longings too late, and in the end
the darkness will be upon us  darker than night,
darker than black.

they were undeveloped.

fetal figurines in preservation
still and detached from
the placenta of a better time
tiny knucklebones
grew miniature orchards
half in bloom
out of season, tracing palm lines.

(deciduous wrists)

forever in the interim,
encapsulated
while clock-hands
melted through ceramic face
and dripped over cream lids
sealing their last breath
like hurricanes in a time capsule