the bellicose estimation session
(more as with n, correct? a genuine recipient of the old man’s cut-n-paste. but we must move on.)
the museum is curated. the others are dead.
count quickly, respond now. elements wondering fast are stuck first.
this is the nature of the cog,
it spins only until it realizes it is spinning.
beyond that, it can only ask why it has stopped.
imprint yourself with the mistakes of the past, in a literal fashion, the cave sky perhaps,
though i suppose it has been done, as equality begs an audience.
first step to step is an increased meter,
i loved your entrance and the blood on your face
(it was a shameful time but better for it,
some conceits must be burned)
‘what have i become!’
answers the owl on the ridge,
a place owls are not born to sit,
but he is consumed every night with longing,
a drip in the drop in the bucket of where it is.
children respect it.
they know what is said can be only them,
where they can echo with a cliff face,
find a resonance.
it is a comfort, even when it reaches the core,
and breaks.
the security of darkness is a light,
as even i had realized once.
there is that drenching murder,
which needs no reason:
purpose gives way to story,
or story to purpose,
the fantastic revenge.
exacted upon no one,
but merely a hidden journal, written along the lines of telepathy.
DO NOT READ THIS.
we will never know if he respected us, or what fear he drew
from our observations, frightening lack that they were.
in years his answers ceased, and my fiber optics bent elsewhere
the breeze is fickle, but faithful.
he was my favorite, and i stepped on his orchestra,
for was i only a child?
or so much more of so much less
in time we will live and forgive,
in the unexplainable quip.
they said they worried for my neurons,
which perhaps was true,
and for which i must devise excuse
is this lucidity or vengeance?
has it already been read?
i do not turn back.
the words are bound to repeat,
forced as they are,
lodged as they are,
in a garden.
curt.
his consonance is a disturbance,
and i dislike the lesson,
but he has beauty.
we have degraded to cycles, and thus.
ONE
