Life As Child's Play / Simple Consequence of No Body Home

 
 
 
Here  w'ego.  
 
Here we tramp thru killer desert(s),
unmindful that it's made of sand. Each grain
  it's own unique uni'verse
 
But what does this have to do with you?
You were my child, and yet a dear friend.
 
Weeping's been crazy-wild, becoming the
top draw of my mangled deck, becoming
a noose for a neck of another of god's
sacks of meat and bones always returning to
 
anonymity  
as soon as it self-identifies.  
Weeping on  
desert sands!  What a metaphoric entrail
THAT becomes, doesn't it?
 
My child, my friend, got so lost in this fckn
shit-morass, and all i did was stand on a fckn  
florida (whose sand are sands much'so
simularly unique per unit, but so different
as mass), beach, thinking eye had a watch
on you, despite being too far away to see,  
to know ANYthing of utility to save your
"going down" all the way to death's open gate
of souls too weary to step any further. No hell.  
No heaven. No place to purge.Just a
depository of twisted delusions
of what we have to think that we know
so steadfastly solid as to break of it's rigidity.
 
There's nothing left here of value now. Amazing
how one absence can change the whole color
of whatever life-time may seem to be at any
particular moment.

                            ~    any  pa r t i c u l  a  r
                                             m  o  m  e  n  t    ~
 
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
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