I feel the weight of death.
That’s all you need to know about me.
Unfortunately,
the significance of that burden is never fully appreciated.
Childhood exists as a series of poems.
Fragmented
words,
feelings,
senses.
A confetti of experience tossed here and there.
Our civilization barely breathes anymore.
We are slowly strangling ourselves;
and we love it.
The weight of my conscience makes my bones ache.
Possessed and pregnant with thoughts.
Some thoughts manage to explode,
spewing their guts on these pages.
Other thoughts quietly implode,
sucking my life and everything in me with them.
The beam of consciousness strikes,
and all thoughts shine,
for a moment.
Floating thoughts,
suspended in time,
glittering like gold,
only to find an edge of darkness
and pass quietly into oblivion.
I want to follow my thoughts there,
to the event horizon
where the weight of the universe lies,
where thoughts disentangle,
and oblivion pulls.
Talk of material goods,
possessions
and luxuries.
Talk of little lives
and big things.
She held out a smile,
We are born into a world of authority,
Born as subjects and have remained subjects.
Authority is your parents,
your teachers,
your politicians,
your god,
your goods,
and you are obedient to them.
Always obedient.
Strange how we strangle ourselves.
We wrestle the breath that keeps us alive.
We create walls and dams,
we feign the erratic static,
the impending pogrom,
pulling leeches from our breeches,
our gut swallows the smut,
it takes what it makes
and squeezes the bejesus out of the million children
and every other joe and schmo.
William Dare 