![]() Lifecycle of bugs and broken poetsA Poem by Moonie![]() ~It's my birthday and I wrote this~![]()
There is nothing in the glass bowl,
only the light that turns it iridescent. On the table top, it spins along the merry go round of our egg shell earth, that'll crack at the slightest touch. Death rides shotgun with all of us. Look up at the sky and watch the colors echo what you feel. Look down on the ground and you'll rest your eyes on little ol' me, chasing cars and chasing dreams, building sugar cube mountains the way i build my machiavellian schemes, squirming at the pearly gates of the entomologist's table. I'll do my courtesies and follow their rules, slog in the anthill, collect nectar from blooms, praise the kings and queens to avoid the sword. Sheep in wolf's clothing always a bloody coward. I'll sing my swan song from my silk coccoon, dipped in hot water like some medieval dandy bard with a hip flask. I know I won't last the truth of my tedious existence, the daily vocal humdrum monotony that sticks to you like beeswax bubblegum. How do we ever forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become. Sitting in the crotch of the enormous tree, not being able to choose which fruit to eat and starving to death in the pile of rotten plums. I have been told I'm the brightest candle in this empty theater of snuffed out possibilities. Someday, I could live on a cottagecore farm, have kids with rhyming names. I could rebel against the system make money or win acclaim. Or i could sit and rot in this orchard i planted: my unchanged bedsheets, the pile of unwashed clothes on my desk and the mountain of books i should probably read. It's only human to want to be remembered, to have our faces encased in lockets, to have our graves marked or our words preserved like the bleached bones of a fish fossil under the sun, who had swam in this ocean some 450 million years before me. At night, I lie in bed and hope death is like falling asleep, soft and peaceful, with no memories or wasteful ambitions to weigh me down. And even though in life I was a prickly crown of thorns with my hypocrisy and contratarian bullshit, when i leave, i hope I can leave the world with a little more poetry. © 2024 MoonieAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor![]() MoonieAboutIf you're a dreamer, come in If you're a dreamer, a wisher, a liar A hope er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer, If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire For we have some flax-golden tales to spin .. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|