Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash
The smallest thing
that we could be
is clocks on walls
at crime scenes.
We count the days
and add them up,
but settle for
what’s not enough.
Our eyes are bulbs,
bloodless and black.
We don’t record,
we just sit back.
No evidence
of having lived,
I choke on my
experience.
To kill a man
or chop a bull—
it all is just
a spectacle.
I sit in place,
criss-crossed and chained
to galaxies
with better days.
We conjure lust
for life not lived;
hail zoetropes
of consciousness.
The bloods roll wet
on golden floors,
and finally
you take what’s yours.