Dying People

I look around and all I see are people dying…

The gross stench of rotting life assaults my nostrils, my instincts become hostile- but then I take a moment to give one away.  Free of charge.  While the demons of humanity roam around freely at large, I freely free their humanity to BE large… a dance floor for their soul to moonwalk upon.

I’m smiling as I’m working and performing poetry… appalled that some days my most grandiose concerns are people genuinely knowing me, when really I should be gently sowing seeds of clarity to shaded eyes.  I’m smiling, but I’m sick inside.  That woman who just passed me by has domestic abuse in her eyes and troubles with her children ice skating the glowing veins in her skin.  I can smell the fear of death spiraling off of that old man, and am nearly blinded by the innocent courage of his grandson…

What am I doing?  I call myself the open mic for destiny to spit life, but my actions thus have left me powerless and with no power the room booms with my muted influence.

A slow winding trail of happily mourning bodies makes it way past me… I try to speak to them in passing, convincing myself that the grade of offhanded love is passing… No wonder I can’t make a change.

The horrid aroma is clogging my throat, forming a moat between the royalty locked inside my dome and the civilians on the other side.  On stage I become entertainment, in a church I’m some term with “praise” in it, at work it’s little more than paid enslavement, and when my imagination takes control I’m the hero of the day in it… fanciful illusion at best.  Heaven’s grasp extends itself to me with my every breath, granting life more when hell puffs its chest, it’s so fresh- angelic guidance and God’s grace.  I am the most broken of men… listed among the strong, but truthfully among the feeble…

All I see are dying people.

Everybody sleeps, but nobody dreams.   Capitalistic monsters posed as originality and ate creativity when in actuality cree-ate first… we were created at birth… creative genius is the cellular structure of our soul’s girth…

Dying people… dying people…

I look around and all I see are dying people living in a world of potential.  A world tilted at a steep decline, prepared to usher them to the mercilessly jagged rocks awash in the consuming waves of the ocean below.  These people… these dying people say nothing with their lips, though I beg them with all my might.  I offer to lay down my life, but it seems like only literal sacrifice will suffice at all.  They won’t talk.  They just walk.  Their hearts blink frantically- the erratic, desperate winking of their most vital organ attempting to attract the gaze of even the most desolate passerby.  All it takes to raise a flame, is one spark… All it takes to wake a life, is one heart…

Why not mine?

Why not mine.

That is the question I pose to myself… It is foolish to feud with the clueless about clues- to lie down in a coffin and reason out the exit from a mother’s womb.

Dark cannot recognize dark- only light.  Death cannot recognize death- only life.

And if I am claiming to be plagued by all of these dying people migrating through my life…

Why have I not yet given them mine?

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