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reflections in liquid memory
I remember-
(shortly before you shattered me)
you asked a question
-how I felt-
and how I usually did
okay
here's how I feel-
not just then, but far too often
(if only I were more adaptive, right? though you damn my change...)
like or perhaps as a mirror
there is more of the person I am reflecting
than there ever was of me
if every aspect is to be mutable
transparent
then it is also to be empty
always ready for the spectacle
jade combs and cornsilk hair
so very opulent
(do you understand what you are doing?)
so very beautiful
(and how you got here?)
and a wish
to become moreso myself
through observation
I guess what little is left of me
is in the handle
solid, in color and strength
not taken to bending
but still so very fragile
something small and beautiful
if given to overadornment
and lux compensation, of course
and certainly not meant for here
these meanings I derive
these morals
and all the things I grasp at with these hands of mine
have become as nothing.
every implementation of these solemn desires I champion
has failed.
in a world such as this
it seems it cannot be
no ethical art within this system
no study just for knowledge
people tied up like shorn puppets
engaged by broken physicalities
loving that sweet distortion
hating such revolting clarity
to live in such a world is to be subjugated
and at best avoid slavery by inches
the will of the oppressed
this time the majority,
(how ironic-)
ignored once again in favor of a mockery of fairness
and maybe you can pretend
that this is okay
that this was ever okay
and maybe you can tell yourself
that this is the best way
the only way
that the other options aren't practical
but you see, the positivity of my definition is thus;
my eyes are far too clear for that
and if that was the world I saw
I would much prefer to be shattered
you aren't good for me anymore
you have become the smudges on my glass
and I can no longer see with you here
it's a little late, maybe
but...
that's how I feel.
