A warm winter that maintains
the gray skies, but doesn’t
cover up the death with any snow.
No one has a right to feel let down
by anything because nothing is here for you,
you are here as a protest against the nothing.
A tree on the roadside is pulled apart
by moisture and wind and sheds its bark
revealing a smooth gray interior.
I stop and cut a single line across
its surface adding to the perfection
of a crumbling world.
Already the appetite for destruction
is growing like the clouds we burn
into the air, and while they’re there
they soak up all the light provided.
Sometimes when I’m dreaming
I can see the atoms in my hands,
and I wonder what they’d look like
if divided.
Teleporting Typewriter 