Post Apocalypse

Taking locks apart to look for
something missing in the mechanisms
only leads to metal fragments
everywhere, and no one even cares
about it anyway.
You can make your own fun
with no guns behind the contract
or red exits signs left blinking through
the fire and the smoke we all
are crawling through.
Broken bar stools on the concrete floor
marked by the shoe prints
of a million generations worth
of disappointing slackers after work.
I don’t know where the machine ends
and I begin anymore.
The medium of memory is being born
and slowly dying altogether
in a metal shack now painted black
and drinking in the sunlight
by the stream behind the overpass
and ice cream truck left stranded and alone.
We cannot atone for where we’ve taken things,
and all the broken promises we move around
like they were never even made.
I don’t like behaving when I’m told to,
so I won’t do what they’re asking,
at least this time, while I’m basking
in the last of me.
I’ll part with this for free
but please be more than careful.
Sometimes old swords stay sharp
for longer than expected.
I want to unravel the book spines
of a thousand volumes at the highest point
I can get to, and let the pages fly away from me,
so I can see them slip through all your fingers.

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