Ashes


We are all a little something

human—fragile packets

of bravado and bone, dread

to be alone

but destined for it.


We all deplore it, this existence,

in metered amounts—

twelve teaspoons of having

no thing figured out

for every drop of felicity.


And yet, we go persistently

into tomorrow, thrusting away

today's wet weight

with jazz-age paddles

unfit for the cause.


What else do we have,

but to be

without pause

until our fatal

interruption?


To be caught up in

falling down?

Until we're ashes—winding round,

and round,


and round...

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