This crown chakra’s pounding on
the doors, an unlit fire. The mind
matter match is struck, the strip
a brilliant liar—who wants to find
us as taped up boxes, “Fragile,”
stamped upon the package. Shipped
to destinations where, arrived,
batteries lacking. Ill-equipped
for proper and polite usage,
to the sewage with the rest. Tossed
into the fecal matter. The cost
of the pieces unassessed. Lost.
(But don’t fret, bro, we’re all foolish sheep.
Too dumb and tired—to fallow dreams.)
