Closed System

We live and breathe inside our gunnysack.
A fusion lamp illuminates our days.
It hides at night behind a paper moon.
Plants grow in our rich loam. Sometimes we’re happy.
A lifetime of denial leads downhill.
Our young at heart live like they were immortal.
They look away when we are eating dirt.

I sing of birds, remembering how they looked.
I might as well be whistling. Memories mix me
a toxic cocktail topped up with regret.
We need palliative care. Caretakers turn their backs.
They turn their minds, pretending they are good,
into echo chambers. They hear what they shout.
On the verge of morning, diving boards collapse.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s