THE TWO OF US COME UPON A STATUE OF LIMITATIONS
The two of us come upon a statue of limitations along the side of the road, discussing buried pleasures with the grim weeper softly enough to wake the dread. So softly, silently, that we can’t hear them as we walk by, shivering, the smell of regret heavy in the air.
“We have seen bitter days,” one says. “We’ve seen the stuff that screams are made of.”
“We have been convicted of high crimes of reason,” the other says. “Of the joy of forgasm.”
“We have also, regrettably, committed crimes of ration.”
“We have seen the cold heart facts.”
“We know that furiousity killed the cat.”
“We have gone to the inane asylum, and heard the intellectual simulation. We have heard great expectorations.”
“We have heard cheap trills and actual sighs.”
“We know that the meek shall inherit the dearth, and that too often it’s binders keepers.”
“We have drunk from the primal stream.”
“We have seen a simple twist of faith, and taken it for granite.”
“We have seen paradise tossed.”
“We have heard glibberish, and seen the irreal.”
“But, I swear on a stack of baubles, we are spinning too much time on this rite to remain silent.”
“Dust will yet conquer us.”
“That’s an extinct possibility.”
“May we rust in peace.”
Nothing but the wind blowing . . .
