Not a droplet of dream or ambition

once bitten, a rendevous is due with intimate suspicion

offset by a faucet of sleep-dust running off yet,

even with a mind to wander and a heart to spill over introspection;

that moistens my lips, but no cascades of schemes or missions

or even desire, not even a wish

seen as empty for I do not have a goal

I don't want anything greater for myself

a walking, unburied plot, an inconvenient hole

bereft of a career, love, possession, or wealth

and all the more fulfilled for the time I keep

the dirt does not care who steps on it, it settles where it falls and there it is earth all the same, and the earth does sleep.



The unburdened become pressured

to feel the weight of direction

that one is not free to flow

as they please, without navigation

unfetter me, untether me, you have no future to sell me

all these promises of luxury and tier-locked sensations

destroy balance, perception and health

falsifying the demand in a supplied narrative

mass-producing the genocide of individuality

from artists raised in poverty to success stories searing on college degrees

the appeal of "drive" is one to virility

that only holds a digit on the hand of the economy.