Pain is a past
And
Future portrait
Of what was
And what is
To come.

Beneath the muscles,
The bone; this phosphorous
Soul of mine teetering on the edge
Of extinction and anonymity,
There is a burning.

The sensation
Itself
Is faint. Pick up a jar
Of pickles to a lick
Of fire.

Bring a hand
To the cheek
Of the one I love,
And there is a kiss
Of fleeting ash.

Rollover
Play dead
No man passed
Cares
Whether they lived
At the end for
They are dead.

Legacy resides in pain.
Trauma, injury, is our
Paradigm for progress.

We desire hurtles.

Anything too easy
Will be repositioned,
Remodeled,
Retold to fit the prospectives

Narrative.

Are we not all seeking
To be the hero
In this story

Of ours?

Of humanities?

If so (you cannot deny it)

How will the future children
View your digital cave drawings?

How will they listen to your tales
Through air pods, podcasts, and
VR reinterpretations?

What secrets will they find
That you believed
You hid
So well?

Will you even care?
Will

They?