Missiah (2016)

Why am I talking to the air?
There's no-one there.
My existential self,
a product on a shelf;
finite, peerless, peakless, dissident wealth.

Big minds dismissing life beyond.
Patterns emerged from primordial ponds.
They formed covalent bonds;
isolated physics; lucky math songs.

    Competing selfish games fucking over
    bits of the puzzle adapting to maximize gains.

Nature destroys herself in bits
so everything fits.
The balance seems a curse,
a selfish universe
where all creation is destined for a hearse.

        Harmonica break

So glad they wrote their stories down.
Layers in the ground.
Our jobs come obsolete.
The patter of small feet;
an earthic hindrance not celebrations in the street.

    How did I pass that man sleeping out on the cardboard?
    Life took a turn for the worse and I chose to ignore.

I will not lie, I need before I die,
to let you know that I loved breathing, just being alive.


©2016 John T. Windle/Vaudeville John