Bound

 
What the fuck am I doing here
looking up at the planes,
giving more thought for them than I do
for dinner?

I hope we get a little warning before the candle
is blown, abruptly out
so we can spend our perishing minutes
scuttling down streets
and not have to worry about the fucking planes.

Never feel so bound to living
as when I look up
then hopes diminish quicker
than a humming bird's heartbeat
and every shitty, jaded memory
becomes wings, tail and legs
because I'm bound to living
to death --

still patient and waiting
for all these detached thoughts
to fit somewhere and have some meaning
amongst this colony
of over-fed, over-bred slaves to life
that all feel the same as me
as we look at each other in the street
thinking:

“Why is she with him?
How did he get that car?
What the fuck is he having for dinner?
Just another drone; clueless.”