It pushes at last
Like a stone
Down a mountain.

Its eye is
The I,
Forever mentioning Her
Past and

Forever longing.

A cup
A bowl
A center
Piece

To ensure

That all is still in place;
That all is still ok;
That all is as

It were.

The burden
So little
So many
Envy of;
Fear,
Is the

Weight

Of becoming,

Which can
If
Done right

Last far past

One's concept
Of their

Own.

I have to **** and
It's almost midnight
Signaling I'm still
Alive in nature with a pulse
And a make-believe

Majesty

Of majestic fortitude.

You
Keep telling me
Poetry matters

But you'd rather recite
A quote from
Housewives
Then Shakespeare, which, let's be honest,

Is the times and
We shouldn't feel bad

About our toilet bowl
Culture spinning down a drain
Ignorant
Of its circular celluloid

Catastrophe.

If I do, choose to,
I typically laugh into my cold,
Open palms
And remember

Poetry is eternity
And flesh,
And human obsoleteness
Is something

To be championed.

I make it
For us
Before us
And always

One step

After us.