the non-people are never sure.
they endure
in silence, or more loud
the staccato of the empty sound.
then they get full of dust,
and see
the dust dusting their ***** non-needs.
smiles and lists
getting guilty, one flees.

the non-people are never brave.
they cave
in every moment of doubt
because doubting is an activity close to the ground.
their lips would get stung
by the ants and bees and wasps;
flowery fields,
lavenders smelling so strong it’d hurt.
missing grasps
of truths so crude.

the non-people are not, no more.
they never were
just forgot to be there, where
others are humming like drops of rain.
stormy sides
but main
would be that what isn’t.
forgotten bars of an empty prison.
hum and groan
for any life is just a loan.