Ghost-Birds And Satellites

I sit...

In the tepid nonchalance of reality
With the pulsating sting of mortality
The universe, yet to answer my queries
Of to whom I exist and why
The ambivalence of life beyond this

From afar...

I've watched fellow mankind
In algorithms of normalcy
Writhing in traps of grandeur
Liberated yet chained to
The diseased American Dream

I ponder...

Oh, great creator, will I ripple?!
Quake beneath their streamlined paths?!
Silly me. Silly me
The universe hasn't time for queries
It's occupied with wrecking itself

Hours on...

In the pastel haze of liquor
Amid ghost-birds and satellites
I realize - that the answer
Is not worthy of the question
So I'll count fireflies instead

Forgive me. I've digressed.
It's 9:03 a.m. now
I'm late for work

(c) 2017 Esteban Luis Soto


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