I wake up to the sounds
of where I sleep
encumbering me:
it is the company I keep
that have torn me down yet again,
and made a mockery
of who I want to be, and who I am.
My body is art;
my place at the foot of where
the nation springs to life. Where it all starts
to corrode, a little, when you look too closely;
when you argue for tomorrow's gardens, loosely
defined, as planted a little too closely together.
When you don't worry about the global supply crisis. The housing prices.
The weather.
The sun is withering whereever you go;
you said that worst comes to worst, we can eat the market, the currencies,
the dregs of other people's egos.
Maybe even the flowers.
Maybe so that nothing will grow
ever again. The real hunger of the soul
is what is left, when one has let the Maliduensa take hold,
and one becomes bereft of any real prison,
except the one made by those who secretly rule the world:
the cage of ages.
That time can be made up for in dollars, and scents, and spices, and slaves
and gold.
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