Rheum
build up, mucus crusted to the corners of eyelids
Power
out, hurricane came through during the night
Stripped
the lines, battery back-up failed, garage door stagnant
Manual exertion
depleted to the quagmire of depression
Resigned
to the forecast, the precognition of reparations possible
In the
pitter-pat of hours dangling like parachute rip chords
In the precipitation
from the sky praying for hands to reach
In
indignant rebellion to dare grip liquid into solid
As if the
smatter of sliding hope were not destined for a puddle
To
collect and evaporate to dangle about the clouds in the morrow
To
entreat for a repetitive cycle of dissonance over angelic benediction
The act
of faith is the kindled fire as flint in the storm
Hands
stretch, again stretch, reach, stretch, wetter and wetter still
Eyes
exhaust and the dampness, the humidity is blinding
The dank
in the dark lambasts the stark honest criticism of science
Stages of
matter coagulated by a belief system based on anomalies
Get up,
knocked down, get up, knocked down, get up, stay
The cycle
of resigned dignity is folded into an envelope
Mailed to
one’s self at the eleventh hour as a reminder to assure
What was,
will endure like the boulder for Sisyphus
So in the
throngs of this depression what chisel does one bear?
What
flint; what lung to swallow this exhaust that
Like a
fern perpetuates in the dim floor to convert
Carbon
into oxygen, that which saves me, kills you
And
therefore in this form I will take it away to assure your safety
Do the
same, but do not forget my existence.
Do not
stamp me from this entangled symbiosis
In all
this blackness reach to me with the nude exchange of breath
And I
will repay you
In the shadow-lands
of canopy suppression, I exhale the honest
Weapon
against this encompassing fear-filled depression
Remember,
“Do good. Simply, do good sir.”
Repay
into the folds of leaves the remembrance of that
Which was
not mandated by the law, but was done by exhaling the toxins
Inside
one’s self, to be the genesis of respiration into a foreign other.
This is
how all great things begin.
When you
see the bank account dwindle
When you
see the townsfolk gather their pitchforks
When you
see the desperation of a whiskey bottle
When you
see the solitary confinement of the digital universe
Wrap your
mind into a casket of encumbered normality
Fraught with
the caked-on sludge eye goop we have the gall to label as sleep
As rest,
as some mucus of restoration rather than complacent death
That day
sir, do good
Find a
child and inspire, find a father and help his hands to work for his kin
Find a
mother and listen, find an artist and respond to the arc of light that entered
Your
heart when intersecting with the ray of that which she creates
Find a
hammer and a nail and combat the idolatry to the cult of blame
Be one
that helps those who are pleading at rain drops
Gasping
upon all solid notions of sanity that fluid must transfer into solid
That
carbon must convert into oxygen despite the travesty of human lungs
Be that
which permeates time to be embraced by another’s grandchild
As the
impetus as to why destitution was not an inoperable eyelid
That the
hands of blood extending were gripped like buckets
To
collect fuel for the horse to proceed from this outpost to that
In that
good, the despair inside your own prism will crackle to unleash a spectrum
Unbound
in a rainbow bending into the nature of all things
However
down, however crimpled into nothing sight
Do good
in the day that you have sir, and nothing more you shall need
Oxygen
will flow into you so that dopamine parades out laughter in your voice
Shattering
doubt of why, existential rationale for existence becomes folly quibble
Apparent in
the deluge of joy of the amplified ability to soak in the present
These
foul religions of archaic legislation segregating habitat of common species
Nevermore,
bound to their courts and robed pulpits
Inhale,
exhale, and perspire in the thunderstorm
Soak in
the possibility of lightning, hold the rod for the herd
Do good,
and illuminate that so that even shut eyes may see
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