A day to remember? I don't think so.
It started too early, closed out too late,
and the filling was spread so thinly
I imagined it under the spell
of the Influencer from hell.
Still, no worries - there's always tomorrow.

Or is there?

The planet might wake, question its purpose,
its self-worth, its very existence.
"Orbiting...really? What does that mean?
A cosmic equation with no resolution?
A timeworn eliptical argument sketch?"
Once disillusion sets in, Mother Earth
dismantles herself, picks up the pieces,
rekindles her passion for earning a crust.

Then maybe the sun, displaying atypical
solar flair, will tire of its star-like status,
that burning ambition to feed us all hope;
go solo on furlough by virtue of vertigo,
lose the corona and dine on the spin-offs.

Yours truly [sincerely unfaithful]
may revisit the dark side, and bathe
in the reflective gloom foreshadowing
a new mood, that iniquitous leap
into the bottomless pit of inequity,
an under-the-counter intuitive ploy
to overcome her fear of depths,
to distance herself from conspiracy's kiss.

But that's all too obviously convoluted;
the clear and present danger to leaving
everything in abeyance for resolution
in the future is the constant possibility
that all words beginning with 't'
disappear overnight.

Imagine being stuffed
with endless yesterdays -
beyond what a stomach can ache.
An unspeakable error,
an inescapable rap,
an unpalatable absence of ruth;
sorrowed lips will swallow our eclipse.

You or I might die

or worse

simply forget about eachother.

07/17/2020

Posted on 07/17/2020
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom