Time brings the body
Closer to unknown but certain death-
The consistency of a marching army.
Barrel cocked,
Sight locked.
Will I hear it first,
Or will my body gush,
Fall apart before recognition catches
Up on, parses out the hole
In my chest?
Tick.
Tick.
Gleaming, practised smiles and sheaves
of documents drift
Surround, expect-
Form safety nets that cradle
The open expanse of ocean
Into diamonds
Of opportunity that beckon.
I reach out, take
A deep breath-water
Through the lips, the taste
Of promise filtering
Through me.
A sharp tug and those same holes
whip shut, leaving nothing but the sting
Of wasted potential.
Snap.
Snap.
The boots tromp past.
The holes blink closed.
Before using my pen, I click it
Five times.
A gift-
Manufactured control, artificial filling
For the craving I cannot hope
To satisfy.
Today,
I try to accept the frailty
Of useless actions.
I force
Click.
My fingers
Click.
To a standstill.
Click.
Unwelcome attention.
Words turn biting, cold, a slew
Of frigid currents
Sweeping me into dizzying depths.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t bear it.” I cannot hear
Myself over
The army, the nets, the water.
But they can, and they hear
Dramatics.
“What, not being able to control everything?”
Able to control?
They say mountains
Made of molehills can only go so high,
But I wasn’t aware that I was above water.
I want to explain, for them
To understand.
Instead,
They are gone.
My hand trembles. Fiddles with
The pen.
Click.
Click.
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