I have written you a poem.

It moves like a siren in the summer singing her sailor to sleep of in whose eyes he finds a dream of his, sealed in a box at the bottom of the sea.

So he follows her.


Just one more pirate to perform the pilgrimage to his king’s seat.

I have written you one poem.

And I’ve captured just how the light refracts off scarlet leaves in the fall—

You know,
shortly after it rains.

When the sun hits them in such a way that they look like diamonds, melting in the intensity of its rays.

I will make you see.

A sixth sense
not of psychic proportions
but one of telepathic tendencies
not yet exact
I must speak.

But do you believe what you see?

In ways like these
we find we’re seized
but we’re few and very far between
the more we are
the less we mean
and so it is with thing’s so keen.

I have written you one poem.

One that makes you feel that, though your names are but pretty things; collars to make you believe you belong to yourselves, when all you really are and all you’ll ever be to those in that world who have to power to control you are…

I have written you a poem.
To make you believe that all the power and all the prestige you need is that of which is found in the quagmire of your being.

It is that of which seeps out your fingertips when you ache to consume yourself in your methods and your toils.

That of which leaches out of your soul when there is nothing that remains on this earth to desire but what it means to become this fabricated creed you have evolved to audaciously address as “important”.

It is the quintessential question you struggle to extrapolate form your cognizance at 2:07 in the morning, when you just can’t sleep because what is the point when you’ll count the quality of your slumber in hours—


All you are is numbers.

Value is put in x equals y but why would you want to become such a theory if theory is relative and your relatives are not even yours to begin with?

The quality of a life is measured—

Measured by the amount of what one has.


Less than?
Or equal to?


What is the real cost of a life well-lived?

Are you happy?

Here. Rate your euphoria on a scale of one to ten.

Oh, me—
You’re late.

You should’ve been at work two years from now.

Someone’s held you up and now you’re two seconds behind the rest of the world.

I have written you one poem.

And I have enslaved yo just as you have me.

A sort of schizophrenia of the rational mind…

To time.

Wasting your time.

You’re growing older with each fleeting second you hear my voice dividing your thoughts with sounds hat have no meaning but yet….

they do.

The fragments of memories in your hour glass are escaping.


You’re running out of time.

Quick! Escape!

With no time, you’ll have nothing to lose.

Numbers no longer chasing each other around the clock in an endless, shameless merry-go-round of mockery;

Cackling as you count
the seconds
the minutes
the years.

I have written one poem.

But I promise that you’re different.

I promised you I’d count you out.

I promised I would make you a galaxy amidst a universe of stars.

And that is why
I have written you—
a poem.

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