What goes up, comes down,
hence my taste for the dirt,
my renewed, now uncompromising
passion for the earth.
To be lifted is just to give
gravity the advantage,
leave it space to gather strength,
to make me out to be the fool again
to fool me into feeling whole again,
full again, just to burst and drop,
to crack and fall
and crumble on the final impact
which is not so final,
as it has forever turned out,
for I always just pull myself together,
puff it up to try and rise again
just to watch myself fall again,
to fall deeper and harder
every, every time.
No, no more,
the line is drawn here.
Fuck being
fate's eternal plaything.
And so curse the sky.
Too high up and my lungs
would collapse anyway.
Surely, if I had gotten any further
the sun would have simply incinerated me
indiscriminately.
Anyway, this wasteland isn't so bad,
at times, it is almost comforting
with these
sun-bleached bones all about me,
just pleasant company calmly
awaiting my graduation
countless particles of earth,
my makeshift blanket,
as I'm compassionately
tucked in by the wind
and those kind guardians above
hypnotically encircling me like a crib mobile,
lulling me to sleep
with a lullaby of caws
all as that glowing globe
perpetually tries to roast me.
Still, my chances
down here are better.
And incidentally, the crows eclipse
the relentless glow,
giving the gift of shade,
easing my envy of their wings
and aiding my ignorance
of their true motives
namely
how they patiently await
their impending dinner bell,
my dirge song; that they smell
my fate in the wind,
the fate I've chosen,
and hunger to peck away
at my last card
their patience and my slow degradation
sufficient appetizers
till my hourglass
drops it's final grain.
But it's all better than rising
just to fall again,
of that I'm sure,
fairly sure, almost entirely.
Anyway, perhaps accepting
defeat is the only true
form of winning.
Yet I can't help
that nagging feeling
that I'm still
missing something.
hence my taste for the dirt,
my renewed, now uncompromising
passion for the earth.
To be lifted is just to give
gravity the advantage,
leave it space to gather strength,
to make me out to be the fool again
to fool me into feeling whole again,
full again, just to burst and drop,
to crack and fall
and crumble on the final impact
which is not so final,
as it has forever turned out,
for I always just pull myself together,
puff it up to try and rise again
just to watch myself fall again,
to fall deeper and harder
every, every time.
No, no more,
the line is drawn here.
Fuck being
fate's eternal plaything.
And so curse the sky.
Too high up and my lungs
would collapse anyway.
Surely, if I had gotten any further
the sun would have simply incinerated me
indiscriminately.
Anyway, this wasteland isn't so bad,
at times, it is almost comforting
with these
sun-bleached bones all about me,
just pleasant company calmly
awaiting my graduation
countless particles of earth,
my makeshift blanket,
as I'm compassionately
tucked in by the wind
and those kind guardians above
hypnotically encircling me like a crib mobile,
lulling me to sleep
with a lullaby of caws
all as that glowing globe
perpetually tries to roast me.
Still, my chances
down here are better.
And incidentally, the crows eclipse
the relentless glow,
giving the gift of shade,
easing my envy of their wings
and aiding my ignorance
of their true motives
namely
how they patiently await
their impending dinner bell,
my dirge song; that they smell
my fate in the wind,
the fate I've chosen,
and hunger to peck away
at my last card
their patience and my slow degradation
sufficient appetizers
till my hourglass
drops it's final grain.
But it's all better than rising
just to fall again,
of that I'm sure,
fairly sure, almost entirely.
Anyway, perhaps accepting
defeat is the only true
form of winning.
Yet I can't help
that nagging feeling
that I'm still
missing something.
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