Maze Runners

Please do not plan to lay flowers on my grave

I will be dust spread into some irrelevant bastion of Earth

Intentionally mixed with the remnants of eons

So as to shed the illusion of individuality inside these wrapping vines

Tell me while I am living that under such an abrupt end to respiration

That you would miss me to the degree you feel inside

Whether it is dramatic or a passing note of normality

Please give me this in place of flowers

I need this to assuage my insecurities more than I fathom registers

For the universe appears so much of stark nothingness

The words written and spoken and there is only the echo of apathy

Whatever I have thought has been had before

In so many iterations that the energy of such discernment

Is a laughable if not insulting creation so that originality is not a goal,

But a reprieve from such instruction; to cease wanting, attempting, communicating

In an out absent an in so that the whispers are snickers at a man

Who failed to live a day in his life, for the fortunes told the body to enter the maze

And all he did was wander to an alcove sit with a pile of papers and books

And quit attempting to discover the exit; the strategy for advertised victory

Became muted by the lack of dopamine released even in conceptual achievement

The better trial seemed to occur inside skull traversing  

To be inside the hedge bearing compass in neurons

So as to sense the universe rather than a planet to see the singularity of the whole inside a particle

Reverberating in intricate detail sculpting the will of why we are here

What are we doing and misguiding ourselves to believe we are in this constant chicanery

Sitting, so difficult to find anyone willing to slow; the maze runners

Have not noticed in years and so it is and will be that body will decay into leaves

Rooted here as there is little relevance in moving now to a labyrinth with no discovered exit

Some surely say it exists, written about in books, published, published, discussed,

But never filmed, never has any reentered the maze, yet stories, stories

Sandy lump, thinking, thinking, writing, writing,

Just a mammal waiting for a vulture