Do they midnight sonder?
Like I Do?
Surely some must,
Or the bell curves of demographics –
Would not have produced me,
Capable of such simplicity.
Chaos Theory,
Does not tolerate my hesitations.
Sonder away,
Until one of them finds my digital carcass,
Pixel skeletons in different fonts,
Telling the stories of another old fool.
Prone to allusion,
Philosophy,
But Metaphor most of all.
Peace was never an option,
Reciting such lines as if you had options.
Cruel,
Callous selves.
Trained by Machiavelli himself,
In the guise of parental abusers.
Be merry!
This skeleton ripples with mirth!
Let my dark humours,
Morbid chortles,
Chuckles,
Cackles,
Giggles,
Wheezes,
Gasps.
Last,
Even,
Perhaps.
Might die tonight in sleep,
As so many have before.
Hence the laughter:
You Can’t Kill Me!
Remember?
I’ve Tried.
No macabre too great,
For what remains of me.
Jest.
It’s what I’d have wanted.
These myriad epitaphs,
Where I spoke to you from beyond a time.
Now or never.
Later or ever.
Only the clever.
My secret little treasure.
Spells recited past midnight hours,
When the world is dark & still.
Gorging on dopamine –
Crafted for myself out of thin air.
Object permanence?
What’s that?
People go away,
Cease to exist.
How many in my lost eidetics,
Broken & fragmented,
Disappeared?
How many disowned,
Due to toxicity?
How many spurned,
After scorn.
Perfect fairy tale:
Witch,
Asking for simple kindness.
Hospitality.
Benefit of the doubt.
Curses, loaded for hatred.
I sonder, still.
Where I spoke to you from beyond a time.
