The smoke rises, though there’s nowhere to go. The smoke rises, despite the nothing that matters. The longed for rain a series of drizzles, the known quantities proving the prophecy true. No calls, no texts, just the motion from next to next. Fireworks and frightened dogs, rats scrambling through the trees. The old bones complain and complain, as above so below. Heat rises, but the cold just cozies up with the concrete. Not enough isn’t fucking around.
Even before the plague, this was a played out position. Even before the plague, there wasn’t anyplace to be. Just the watchtower of the unwanted. Just the stretch of shadows as the car pulls away. Just other lives and other worlds, witnessed but further than the long dead stars spilling light. Nothing to save, nothing to salvage. Just the long loiter until the curtains fall. Just the creeping light to get your ticket punched.
It’s a trap, it’s a tomb. One idiot day at a time, time and time again. It’s the trick of duty, the death by obligation. The next indignity always a little lower, the bottom left to the imagination of your tormentors. Even the words only here to remind you that you don’t belong. Even the words only here to show the joke you’ve always been. String some lights, kill a tree. All that’s left some makeshift gallows. All that’s left the choice of deaths.
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