Untitled #56793

A creeping watchfulness withers once noticed
A silent version of splendor arises, then dies
If only because nothing special lasts that long
A minor annoyance rests like a boulder
On the hill it should have rolled down
Held up only by dead eyes
Waiting for something that already happened
A debt never paid
An anger left to linger
A slight perceived as weakness
An entitlement that has no title
A feeling that feelings should be proof
That proof is more than feeling
That actuality is less than one person
That society is not the sum of its parts
That unruly elements rule by fear
That nothing is watching the slow creep
Except for when we are watching
And when we are watching nothing
The dead rise up
Why we didn’t care about ourselves more?


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