On the Eve of Contrition

Voici un cri du coeur.  Ecoutez-moi.

Have you ever felt like your entire self-aware life was a bout of nano-particle malingering?
or that inanimate objects had ensnared the souls of the living?
Standing atop a holy mountain, gritting your teeth not to be carried away by windy dunes,
you can smell your spirit cutting itself away from your nucleic acid,
now and again a sandy, burnt cocoa dust to rival the best bourbon swoons inside
memories of your youth.

When every love from a human was unrequited,
the only loyalty you knew came from a baby grand piano,
echos from an empty dance classroom.

Have you ever felt like the people who belittle you are the only ones that truly see you,
but they’ve lost the language of love, so they spit daggers at you
because maybe, underneath their taunts and grunts and punches to the spleen
you can sift through their nonsense, locate your ghoulish reflection.

Forgive yourself for being, forget yourself for reliving
the same, enigmatic three-act play
where hell is other people whose idea of a life worth living tastes
just like fuzzy dice.

So on this eve of contrition, for the heartless deeds of those who believe
they knew everything, may the Great Spirit take pity on the sons and daughters
who really knew better and were too scared to share it.

~~ Less of a poem, more of interpretive linguistic choreography.

larbre2

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