Rambling thoughts from a streetside cafe
Oh, rose, oh layers that fold and bend and tear beneath a fingerscratch. You remember, don’t you, the wind-tossed hair of every pollenite, searching for one last scrap of gold. You remember love siphons and the coarseness of a single human thumb, tracing your skin, scratching your shield, so quickly gone, so long remembered. It left its mark on you; you never entered its conciousness.
Do children go to heaven? What about the selfish ones, the greedy ones, the picky-eating ones? Each hastily drawn genus of a human soul - so quick, there’s another batch to come - bastardly in its own way. Each uterus torn from its homeward stem. The cord was snapped before it was formed. Do they ever find another guiding rope?
Speak again, of freedom, speak again, of righteousness, hanging like a plump whore on a fishnet hook. Speak again of this American dream — speak of this Boston nightmare. Our throats are the censors of our thoughts. Twist and contort and turn them into what they are not. My theories become frankensteins. My Jekylls become Hydes.
I dreamt of purpose and then I forgot; I dreamt of reason and then I was spent.
