the molehills

natural, endless, inevitable, like us and when we choose to cry

i’m not feeling enough shattered,

more timidly defaced, dismantled too calculated

to present

a sudden master;

oh the molehills off-center,

where the cough only remembers the thin air of pennies,

the slick wretch of a stomach so round and so empty,

almost an imitation if you were, say, distracted,

of the pipes squeezing out the rest of their lives,

for a drop of mine,

to fill my cup and ring my hat, to the drop of a dime,

the strike of a needle in a thousand haystacks counting the rest of time;

oh the molehills off-center circulated,

prophesied to unwritable darlings between the sky;

oh the distance from which we face our dismissal,

a stupid standoff, fools to the end of a line,

that seems so unending and, of course, i’ve lost,

in the bat of an eye, and in this brave face,

thin cough,

i’m dismantled to a bin of parts, only blinking through heartless definitions,

the coldest vision to ever exist,

built to bits.

acd