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Cold Woe Squared.

On my belly again,
false hopes higher than kites,
like a snake left to digest
the psychedelic toad
he swallowed inside.

Down on the ground, secure
from mayday, I relinquish the climb
for fear of the fall,

the ending makes the story,
deep down this we all know,
each also sure to ignore
that all roads inevitably meet up
six feet underground.

Game Over or Back to Start:
is the question.

Back to start? If so,
how long till the monad
gets dizzy and lets go,
content with just bearing the nausea
induced by his own spinning dome?

Just fine and dandy spinning off,
dying out here on my own.
You must see now
what I have always felt:
that I have never really belonged.

Be it hip to be square
or considered just another social wedgie
in the way, this world is surely one
of round holes,
as certain that I am
a fucked up square peg.

To remain
would mean at least one of us
must change.

Too stubborn to forget myself despite that value among the herd,
always forgetting to ignore what I have seen,
every moment must constitute compliance,
personal assistance in collective suicide,

As your inevitable collapse, the dead end
up ahead remains: to cut a deal,
to slit my own wrist. You change first
or I’m just done with it.

Can’t be part of what insists
on killing itself. To sever the tie that binds
is to endure.

I can take the cold far better
without the false promise.
Evidently warmth is a rarity
here anyway.


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