Right Or Wrong


 

He sat ever so tearfully,
Perched against one of the now forgotten
Breathtaking replicas of the Van Aken stone fruit tree,
That were made to be monstrously perfect at the seams
By the sometimes ignored horticulture drones
That thought solely of their survival.
Built, hidden, slowly in thinning groves
Where robotics rustled leaves, moving in furious motions.

He wrote about how infuriating it had been
Patiently searching through misleading documents.
How, at times, they were just a pile of stupid fucking lies
While the others had claimed to understand
How taxing it must have been
But never did shit about it.

What was the point in speaking
When they don’t want to listen.

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Dramatic Hand Brushes

Thunderously tumultuous rumbles whizzed in pours.
We listened to those sounds while our fingers softly crossed.
Sprinkled after showers sparkled in spectrumed ranges,
Lying on curvatures of ridged polycarbonate awnings,
You ridded off rigidly with ragged towel like cloth
Against wistful pleas of please don’t’s
As traces of those droplets evaporated.

I’d try recreating pieces
With tubular glitters
Unable to recapture
The beauty we saw.

Diminishing images
Of compositions;
Lost expressions
Of those vibrancies.

I heard you say
“Try anyway.”

But you left that day

And took
My fucking glitter.

“Try anyway.”