I think I like my life as a worn out Wes Anderson movie
Instead of pristine snow caps, I'm grey sludge, musky tastes of salt and gravel on the tip of the tongue, creeping up the cavities of my lungs
That coast reminded me of a muddy movie scene
Where's the version where the stones hurt your feet and the bank keeps the stench of carcass and earth?
The train tracks are my spine
And this café car is my chest, pulsating fast but even
Bridges make me uneasy, they are a little dance with death
I think approaching the afterlife is just as serene and seductively beckoning as the overlook
A couple blinks later, I'm somewhere else
But there's a haunting continuity, a sense of wholeness that tosses me with the ubiquitous leaves that reign after the rain
Some leaves still hang on, stubborn like yours truly
I hug my branches to myself
I hang on, too
The train rumbles past rusty soil
I like to relate to things and I like to think these fleeting sights like me almost as much as I like them
This filth has beauty so I'll allow myself be a disappointing form of being with potential for a subtle magnificence, too