Forever neglected
Forever dismayed
Forever deafened
By the cacophony of the trade

The antiquated digger stands by
A sentient guard of the worker
It watches as the tree slowly dissipates
Its life slowly crumbling
As the voracious chipper
Devours the tree whole

The worker stands by
The digger stands by
The chipper chips away

The taciturn worker remains
Ruminating the existence of the world.
Why was he put here?
For what reason must he stay with these hallowed construction tools?
Do they feel any remorse for the change that they've enacted
On the world around them?
Are they aware that they transgress the laws of nature?

The bellicose chipper
Wages war with nature
As the people watch so distantly.
Its sound makes the neighbors quite belligerent
Yet the zealots watch attentively.
The pure ignorance
The pure neglect
The blatant apathy
Is something to be seen.

Whatever could possess you
To follow in the footsteps of the worker
To feel his pain as the trimmer
Chips away at the trees' centuries
The sound of shattered glass
Punctuates the air.
Perhaps there has been an accident.

Twizzlers
Clenched in a man's hand
Is it a sign of nervousness?

The gooey red dye 40
Oozes into his hands
Was it just being nice?

Never being eaten
Never being enjoyed
Only being clenched
Melted
Destroyed

The twizzlers match his red shoes
Is it a fashion statement?
Or is it just to please the giver?

The twizzlers could be a sign
Why is he suffocating them?
Is it an omen?
Or merely a coincidence

Risky Biznu
Ah Risky Biznu.
An arhizal, my love

Whose affinity I must detest
With you on my quest

My area of knowledge
Does not encompass this
From its inception,
I know this is hopeless.

Risky Biznu
You are not similar to a
Shitzu

Smallman
Why are you so small
your flippant comment
with a small lament
makes me feel like I've never before

I must confess
That the smaller, the better
and I wish to be pragmatic with you
But I feel I can't
With the slew of emotions
Flooding my conscience.

Why smallman
Why are you so small

Maybe someday
You'll grow tall

Poor weatherman
Always wrong
No matter what

It's almost as if the atmosphere is his opposition
He will never be right

God laughs from above
As He watches the clouds swirl
In exactly the wrong spot

"It's going to rain"
Says the weatherman
"Nope"
Says God

Once
There was an ephemeral man
Precariously balancing on the ephemeral moon
That choleric moon
Always coughing and sneezing
Knocking off that precariously balanced man.

That parochial moon
With its offspring jogging and frolicking about
Maybe one day, that ineffable cough
Will be stopped.

The right thing
What is it?
I wonder
If you do the right thing--
Does it really make
everybody--
happy?

The proletarian moon child
Cogitated this
Along with a myriad of others
While gazing at the ephemeral stars
From the ephemeral moon

Apocryphal writings claimed the answer
But the child couldn't find solace in it.
So he jumped off
To join the vacuous inhabitants
Of the Earth below.

Cogitating the existence
Of another world
The puzzler is snapped out of their stupor
The one piece that will simply not fit
Glares at the puzzler
Just mocking them

Aren't we all
Just pieces that will simply not fit
In the grander puzzle

This world is strange
This world is unknown
This world is impossible

A thought drifts down to the puzzler
From the sky above
Striking them like a bolt
And they realize with a jolt
What if
They'd only been trying the wrong way
What if
They simply needed to look at this
From a new perspective

What if
They considered the form of the piece
Instead of the ones around it
In order to solve
This confounding puzzle