My mind is an ashtray
Full of half-baked thoughts
My feelings are delicate like a dry leaf broken off the tree by rain. The trees inspire me, the way they never stop reaching–even if it’s in the wrong direction.
The butterfly flaps its wings. Nothing happens. Six billion butterflies flap their wings. The rain stops–for good.
Now everyone will be delicate too. A slug hides under me, a root under that. The trees make their stand. Water or no, there they are. A desert awaits a salesman who dies of thirst.
Thirst for others. Uncertainty stares up at me from the chasm. I want to jump in–what a thrill, though short-lived.
Upholstery ensconced and yellow and white paint rush by. Many dead trees. The fire got them. They are ugly now, aren’t they?
The wind pushes the door shut. I re-open it time and time again. Will I ask the right questions, see the right angles? Or am I too obtuse?
Other leaves are lighting themselves ablaze. But what are their stories?
Did he hit the train, or did the train hit him? We’ll never know. Could you blame him, I mean would you?
My mind is a dirty ashtray. Ashes are soft, tasteless. They stand for nothing and let the wind carry them. They are lazy. I want to be the cherry. Hypnotizing, captivating. I’ll try hard.