my wood grain brain
my grey matter mind
my loose liquid innards
countless cells counting time
my entropic envy of concrete
or plastics or ancient stained glasses
there’s an infinity of things not living to see
there’s an absence of life in fields of green grasses
cause it lives, it dies, it grows, it goes
from place to place on the backs of crows
the cycle that bees make beautiful
the kingdom of life, of moss and mold
everything that’s ever been born eventually grows old
so i sometimes wish i wasn’t ever born.
existing as a rebar beam, a monolith of nothing
that simple feeble fleeting little people
could endlessly apply their own meaning too
because if i wasn’t born i wouldn’t be seeking to
be a thing not living. not fleeting.
not ephemeral, not needing my daydreaming
of when the sun explodes, because
this place, is not a place of honor
and if i was concrete with rebar bones
there’d be nuclear waste eroding that corrodes
underneath me, in peoples homes
all the creatures creating meaning
in their wood grain brains
and grey matter minds
wishing for time, dreaming of leaving
they’d be left to write the poems