It's all make-believe
Until it's not.

Each position is a step
For another spot,
Another title,
Another

You.

There is no place
But tomorrow.

The present
Has already passed.

I think of novels
That have stood up
Against the onslaught of time
And tried to learn
From their prose, only to
See past their spell
Of literary-ness.

Take me on a hike, I whisper
To myself.

Show me you're as afraid
Of the dust on the
Untouched pages
Of library books
As I am.

Tell me something
You won't tell
Your readers, for once.

Please don't post it
Neither.

It's just you and me here
Me and you
No beacon of great words or beacon

Lead on by dead hands
Of un-Instagrammable

Morality.

What happens when it happens,
I often wonder.

Will there be a sound?
Or solely silence?

Will, we look on our elders,
Our parental paradigms
As bottle caps
Or finely written pages
Within a ledger,
Like novelties, we forget
As soon as I remember

Our parking is about to expire?

Eternities echo
Mark my words
Will be

Short-lived.

But really,
What can you do
When
There is futility in a rainbow?