You’re not getting any sleep
while the tired faces on graveyard
statues hold their expressions,
at tremendous personal effort.
That is the currency, for you, isn’t it?
That amorphous glob of abstraction
relatable only through subjective
Though, if you had it your way
we’d call it the hand of God.
Heavy punches into throats
knocking Adam’s apples down from the tree
to block the lungs with all the weight
held in its knowledge.
You claim that nothing is supposed
come easy, that nothing can surrender itself.
Tasting cold bitterness is meaningless noise.
The concrete fractures off into piles of rock
forever shapeless like the world you’ll
never see.

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