Is that danger in the distance? Or do my eyes deceive?
Like dark clouds gathering above mountains. Like how the young see their futures.
(Though it's not like the world hasn't been ending this entire time.
In billions of years the sun will explode. In hundreds, our planet will be just dust and stone, and the bones of industry. And at my rate I'll self-destruct by sixty years of age.
But) what is this thing that sticks and stings and irks like a mirage?
Not the flavor of fingers dipped in deliciousness. Not the freshness of a newborn babe. Not the scent of flowers. Not feet in a hot bath. Not fumbling a lovers face, frolicking through foxglove fields, flitting a fiery frevo, finishing first.
No, none of that.
It's not a thing, but a feeling.
Fear Fear Fear
And it sticks and stings and irks, like a mirage.
- by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
I have returned.
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