to cry in a ditch and forget about everything
the linear ride does not stop, it goes faster
and at the breaking point speed,
everything shatters into a thousand, million pieces.
this is the heart at its very epicenter,
like fire to a liquid, set aflame, the water is boiling.
to a cooling point, we shudder in the breathtaking speed
everything eases into a quiet, easy stop.
but the ride hasn't ended, nothing is over
everything repeats and you are more tired than before,
your memory is foggy and the present is intimidating
more intimidating than the past or the future
because what happens now decides everything
the present becomes everything.
it becomes your future, and in this way
it becomes your past.
the present is everything,
and the intimidating rises in the hot, fiery pit of your gut.
there are no more warm, fuzzy feelings,
or easy-to-see felons,
or people lying down at your feet.
there is just what is, and nothing changes that.
perhaps the ease of the ***** has changed you, though.
perhaps you have become harder on the outside,
but your inside will remain the same.
you become an egg, with its brittle shell,
sitting in a carton of others like you,
waiting to be broken and eaten.
to be devoured like the food you are,
to be devoured by a ferocious demon,
a demon inside of you? outside of you?
can you not tell, anymore?
has everything gone awry,
your plans not made go into chaos.
islands in your mind feed on the deep blue oceans,
the very liquid of your subconscious drips
into crisp, white, snow.
powdery and fickle, never staying-ever changing.
it is the solid, the liquid, and the air.
it surrounds you, this breath of another.
you are the mirror, of another.
was there ever an original to start with?
your star changed and danced so many times
with benign signals who have fled into nonexistence,
their own private solitude a solace as well as a jail.
corporate magic flees the scene of a death,
doing its best to not make sense in the face
of the almighty master of miracle dropping.
yet nothing can overcome this Master,
it is the Truth itself, which can not be tricked.
everything dissolves and once again you are alone,
perhaps in a ditch. cold and hopeless,
and without memories of what just took place.
there is nothing left for you,
so you apathetically walk back home.
my masterpiece-like poem.