Cobwebs hang white on the frosty air as digging begins

A lone bird on a bush makes its high call,

sharp as the wind through a broken window

a toothpick of noise

bouncing off damp bricks, that look as though they might fall softly
to the wet grass below

and lay hidden by tears

Is there anything more profound

than the mournful sound

of a shovelling ***** as it fills in a grave

and closes the ground

eeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrryytttttttttttthhhhhhhhi­iiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnggggggggg

dies
everyone lies
we all wear a disguise
no human can possibly fly

immortality
is a fiction
our fixation with youth
is an addiction

the truth descends from our perception
what are we left with?
inception?
another form of self-deception?

i don't know what
this or anything means
are we individuals?
or are we collective operating teams?

ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔢 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔠𝔲𝔟𝔦𝔠𝔩𝔢
𝔊𝔯𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢
ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔨𝔢𝔶𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔞𝔯𝔡
𝔎𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢
𝔐𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔬𝔫 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔶
𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔬
ℑ 𝔫𝔬𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬
𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰
𝔗𝔦𝔩' 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰 𝔪𝔢 𝔟𝔶
𝔖𝔬 𝔞𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱
𝔖𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔡𝔩𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡

-


oh, considerate
counselors~

i fear the scars of your instruction
will never erode, even after i
melt down your mental
tarbabies
with a solution
that i hope will make
them chemically dissolve away,

leaving nothing but your staples.

what was it really ?
hyperactivity, autism,
anomalies of perception,
social detachment,
maybe—

a Gift ?

well, i guess it would not have
made a difference, everybody
knew of this but
                                  me-

patching up my gray matter mistakes
with remedies permanently cemented
between impressionable foldings

i feel this cure like masonry damming
where free-flowing thoughts that ride
upon streams into oceans were supposed
to have discharged naturally,

stopping me from causing my
summers to mix with everybody
else's winters (or vise versa).

you see, my natural configuration
would have sated for me what
would —in turn— infuriate others,

thus the picket around me was built
sufficiently lofty so i would never
grow tall enough to oversee it.

these days i often mistaken this perimeter
for bricks that line the inside of a well,
complete with a leaky bucket
swinging overhead,
beyond my
reach—

of all things an adult child could ever
want for Christmas, the removal of
what now prohibits true potential

these things they instilled into me
so i could not violate the principals
of conventional wisdom in their day—

but this is
My Day
now !

and dead counselors need
not protect their world
from Me anymore !

and this Gift ?

it continues drifting
conspicuously aloft
in my gray ocean—

a Divine Gratuity that remains
—to this day— unsuitable
for redemption...


s jones
© 2020


.