Storm drains, covered in thin blue spray paint
lines, don’t look like anything but
senseless tangles.
It gets forgotten about while
drinking all the rain off the asphalt, and
is never cleaned by anything other than
what it consumes.
Clearing away fallen branches that tear
through gloves and into skin. Making the
path back to the parking lot presentable
for anyone that gets lost out there by
the cliff side. The banks were always
crowded like how a concert looks from
way up in the sky.
We pretend we aren’t afraid to die, but it
doesn’t affect a single thought within us.
Emptying bags of time from the centers of
our chests into a hole, that opens like lips
do, in the wall. It never was the end at all.
At least that’s what they’re saying at the
moment.
Teleporting Typewriter 