Withered Grass on the Dunes, Scattered by the Wind
Withered grass on the dunes, scattered by the wind.
Pedantic chatter gnaws away at our shores,
romantic nonsense sweeps in from beyond the horizon.
An innocent infant stares, dazed, at the dwindling stars.
Politicians and trolls mingle their spittle,
as merry as ever.
O great mission of the age—reshaped,
marching into a new century.
Faith is but a cookie of bygone years,
treasured by the slaves of spirit.
The drought-stricken prairie cannot wait for spring,
and sets itself ablaze.
Awaken, child—the end time approaches.
Freeze your fragile, ravishing emotions.
Turn to ash your stubborn, unyielding reason.
You are but a single grain of silicon sand
in the boundless cosmos, quivering now and then,
fractals spreading across a holographic eternity—
a vintage wine brewed only yesterday.
Life is an intoxicating random molecule,
yet living is so difficult, forever uncertain.
A black hole waits twelve nautical miles away
for sailors bold enough to approach.
But not for me—
I weep alone on the shore, regretful,
for I could not recall my mother’s last
warm smile before she departed.
Nor dare I remember the chaos and fear
of being lost in city streets.
Mockery sells with fervor,
marketing the sticky, half-formed fourth state
between the old world and the new.
I cannot even choose
what—or whom—to love.
The fading fragrance of morning coffee
pities me with its languor,
saving me even the afternoon.
No one minds the autism and whim of time.
Boring philosophy is free to give, never sold;
vanity arrives at your door in stylish delivery.
Who notices the fences of the human ranch
are already rotten?
You need not run madly—
just walk calmly forward.
The wilderness holds nothing—except freedom.
The sky holds nothing—except ease.
Completely, pessimistically, nakedly, I depart.
Withered grass on the dunes, scattered by the wind.
— Written for myself, and for the distant.
