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See the beauty of the flowers
Those left to the wild, to the whims of the world
Unassisted by earthly hands
How relentlessly beautiful they grow.

Hear the birds, singing proudly
Free and flying high
And remember that despite their struggles
They are taken care of, as you will be.

Are you not, at least,
As beautiful as a flower
Do you not
Have words as important as the birds
If not more so?
For you are one of Abraham's stars in the sky
You will be comforted.
Under the bow
of a failing nebula
floats a time capsule
full of unused bandwidth
and disappearing summers

Swimming-pool eyes
they're in remission
discovering Columbus
on the starboard side
of this standard suburban saltbox

Fragility and risk is this
cosmic companionship
rowing to latitude
through dark matter
seiche or refracted

The oncoming tide
will mean a migration of steep passages
"though shiny, sculpted pebbles
spoke of frequent waves
the sea was docile that day"
Inspired by the poem "in love with to the north sea (swinburne)" by fellow HP writer, beth fwoah dream stclair.
I no longer use fantasy as a stimulus. Because pretend drama is but extra drama to experience and I’m unwilling.
Who do you think these rock stars are, whose lives are so glamorously appealing?

My heroes are few and far between, those who help the blind to see. Those who’ve survived life’s fatal wounds, still recognised beyond tomb.
You choose yours, I’ll choose mine. I won’t commemorate the sellouts or the killing kind.
Traveler 🧳 Tim
They want bodies.
Warm, compliant bodies. Moving parts.
Hands that open doors and flip switches.
Spines that bend but don’t break.
They want eight hours of labor, plus the commute,
plus the side hustle,
plus the ever-present smile that says,
"I’m lucky to be here."

But bodies need rest.
And there is nowhere to rest.
No shoebox. No storage unit.
No couch, no floor, no friend with a spare key.
Just asphalt and backseats—if you’re lucky.
Just parking lots and fear and pretending to be fine.

We’re told to buy the things that prove we’ve made it:
the ergonomic chair, the smart toaster,
the streaming subscription that numbs the noise.
But where do we put it?
Where do we live with it?
They expect us to consume while we disappear.

They want machines
—but with human elegance.
They want efficiency
—but with soul.
They want labor without the laborer’s needs.

We are the product and the producer.
The face and the function.
They demand dignity at the front desk,
but deny it in the zoning map.

We work full time,
and still live in our cars.
If we have one.
If it hasn’t been towed or repossessed.
If there’s a safe place to park without being harassed.

Why?
Why can you clock in at dawn,
and still sleep under stars you didn’t wish for?

Because they want bodies.
But they do not want the burden of keeping us alive.
You saw me once,
in your remembered field—
gold-tongued and delicate,
how convenient.

I was never there
for your virtue.

You made me meek,
a parable in petals,
pressing me
between scripture and spring.

But I split sidewalks.
I stain skin.
I’m the itch in the manicured lawn,
the whisper of dirt
under your white cuffs.

You called me "harmless gold"—
but I poison order.
I’m not your childhood.
I’m your forgetting.

You knelt
not in reverence,
but to prove
you could.

You said
I was a lesson in simplicity—
but I speak in multiplication,
in tongues of seed
and wind.

You want meaning.
I give you
multiplicity.
Mess.
Noise.

I bloom
without permission.
Without you.
Again.
And again.
I'm just a sparrow
longing for sky
and if I had wings
I could fly.
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