Fresh Air From The Age

“I see a harbor filled with masts and sails, wearied by the sea wind that wearies me.”

Flat-earthing around.

Having both feet on the ground isn’t something to be admired,

it is, in fact, a burden– a substantial load of accountability.

Caught in a tide of unconsummated scene and wisdom,

dragged by cruel, unflinching currents to dismal places unknown.

Find us solace, sight, and human spirit untouched and unalloyed;

even as flat-earthers, the old say that it all doesn’t last long enough.

Dystopia novels, stale air and cigarette smoke;

dust, routine and a murky film– unnamed and unprecedented– embracing our thoughts.

Virtue superfluous and mind defunct we, some of us, grind forward with quotidian disregard,

for reasons that we can’t or won’t identify.

Consider the nature of a cry for help, its sharp urgency–

nothing we can do will ever seem like anything like it.

Such a chronic condition does everything in its power to quell such expletives;

but there will come a time when a memory’s brevity will appear disillusioning.

Trivial nature of things noted? Maybe not, let’s say not,

but somewhere along the line, our edges will wear away and we’ll notice things are round.

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