Would you banish me if I confessed a secret thrill the instant shrill sirens intrude, rudely breaking in to shove aside my trailed-off whispers with a wail from which no earwax, no matter how doughy thick, could keep a modern Ulysses safe.
Maybe it’s this time they’ll stop for me.
Maybe it’s this time and there won’t come a knock.
Maybe it’s this time the stale crust of hardening past explodes to scorch a put-upon earth or crack her open so we can, you and I, slip through, up among the slewfoot roamers. Their heavy heads are down, always down, down, pointed down and they’re unaware there are germs here. There are puffs of dainty fluff floating close above them here and hoping to ride our slipstream, to skip over those dreams too drained of ambition for ever to germinate.
Ignore, am I the kind to ignore? I am ignoring them right now, and the dimpled facts they’d dare be if beggary wasn’t better served than derring-do. Don’t tell me you don’t see them too.
I’ve witnessed the self-interest and I’m still abiding, dude, but when, dear God, when will enlightenment finally arrive?
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