Prime numbers populate the date
Skeletons file out of the closet
where fleshed out by nostalgia they
fill up my daydreams with sighs
and pungent sweat of yesterday.
I dream, I live, I wish, I weave
in and out through traffic lanes
careening towards my Maker with
uncanny precision. All roads lead
there and here, right now, my
face is still while my ego
kicks and screams flailing against
Death's cold grasp consuming me
cell by cell. Incredulous, culpable,
sanctimonious, combustible. I would
call this feeling "punk rock". Smash
it all to smithereens, cremate it,
pulverize it. Rise like bread or
birds and dream again. Without
nostalgia is better. Now is preferable
to what once was.
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