Nostalgic images are overrated
and permeate our minds
like salt through the ocean,
drying out our tongues.
The fight is all around us,
and it is automatic, weaving
under every action that we take.
A smiling face cut into the surface
of a frozen lake, looks upward
perpetually and sees everything
that passes over it while it’s alive.
The hexagons in the hive are over
flowing with the spoils of the seven
day work week, and there is nothing
more unworthy to give everything.
Piles of burning library shelves
are huddled around in the dark,
and everyone is bored because
all of the good stories have been
forgotten. Someone eventually braves
the flames and attempts to pull
anything out of them, but it’s too
late now, the words are all illegible.

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