The abjective parade marches either side of picket lines. Struggles worn like blistered skin, slung over shoulders- misery endured through habit. The uphill is eternal and failure is a chronic symptom. Birth-marked with our parents' pain. It's written on every expiring face and on every unmarked grave: There's no relief. There is no reward at the end. No prize for those who've shown the most self-denial or for those most controlled- the bread-line partisans dying to uphold the silver spoon. Half-lives consented to with books of rules weighted like rocks to seal a tomb. Splinters of decision in echo, time moves inexorable. a tidal force to flush through & out our cracked composure. and I, I stand staring out this tunnel. of head-on traffic and collision.
a reversal in motion to unwind a well tied knot, a knot that chokes & binds me to surrendor. Let my nerves swim free and discover impulse. what do i determine? everything.
The future is a blank page before your pen, and your hand is free to move in any direction. (If only I could make a motion to make it go away. To strike a line through their world and put an end to these days.) The abjective parade marches either side of picket lines. Calculated and defined to be destroyed.