And just as the morning sun forages through the forest floor.
Like it’s looking for a dropped contact lense.
So too I, a mercenary of reason. Waking and trudging through each day.
Starved for purpose. Understanding.
Instead I’m asked to just choke it down. The hypocrisy, the indignant righteous illusion of free will.
Tongue scraped with charcoal. To the point I question whether or not.
Would it not serve me better to just bite down on my own throat?
To clench my teeth and pull back just far enough to watch the light fade from my eyes.
A poem like the ghost of a memory that was never real. Floats just out of reach.