04/17/20 The Game
04/17/20 The Game
I keep looking into this blurry screen
waiting for something to save me,
but each flash of the pan is another disaster,
each with their own hypothesis of shame and greed.
Everyone has visions when looking into the fire,
and even a burn is beautiful
if you can stand the pain.
And then there are these little pods blossoming
between the attendants of an old debate;
they curl around the fingertips,
just when my belly is growling,
weave the words of an unpronounceable revolution,
point at something bountiful, and then disappear without leaving a name.
I keep going back to the screen,
thinking there’s a personal message,
A pattern,
but no,
just another
water logged feather,
and a blurry ink stain
from an unwinnable game