031413 somewhere underneath


untold emotional pain,
silent existential strife
little to lose, much to gain
zoom out, pan on scene one to see
the terminally-infected tree of life:

suicide leaves fall and drift in the wind
from bare branches and snags that stand
dry, brown, brittle of premature end
as lonely silouhettes in the night
shivering violently in the breeze
breaking, socially estranged
objectified by fright

scene: cut, wrap, radicalize to fight the disease
while we still can, find the poisonous source
neutralize the threat by any means necessary,
up to — and including — by force

what’s the difference between
“preservation” and reservation
when life is struggling to survive
inside a scientist’s sterile petri dish
or a jar of civilized formaldehyde?
essentially, what’s the difference between
undead life and suicide?

scene two:  from black, fade back in
to a single leaf trying to hold on
sensitive to her toxic attachment
where everything feels so wrong
inside her head and her heart
comfort begs and tempts at first
but it comes undead
infected at the start

she shudders, slips and falls to earth
as we dig blind for truth down to its roots
we mine for pay-dirt somewhere underneath
these undead toxic fruits
but no one person caused her death
and no one person could have saved her
like a yellow bird blamed, we burden her
for taking her last breath…

zoom out from the leaf, cut and scene
to think about the tree: the branches, roots
the soil, air and water, and the other leaves
last but not least, try to see
the forest through the trees
in your response the next time someone asks,
“what’s with all the fuss?” because
the undead things that caused her death
are killing all of us…

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