Delirious Socialism

The notion wanders back and forth. On brittle crutches about to break. Every night in doses. Still haven't cured myself of this life. The mind is a pendulum. Swinging back and forth in endless repetition. I'm alive. I'm dead. I love. I hate. I need. I reject.

Each hour tolls true to the count. Ghosts undress. To awaken our dirty attics. With clouds of dust. And spoil our beds with the forgotten contents of musty boxes. The devil may care, but probably not. The window may lock, but the glass is still transparent.

Some say suicide. Others say addiction. I say logic.

The cloud pushes onward through the sky. As the thunder whispers from too far away. She readies herself for the coming storm by poking holes in all her buckets. And setting the clock on her time machine back a few suicides.

Death. Well, that's something the body just doesn't understand. The mind tries to convince it. But these stubborn veins refuse to carry the message. I cut the flower from the stem and wait. True, the petals wither, but it doesn't forget.

We briefly skip ahead. To some time in the future. Everything's different. Except this. The time machine is still running. I'm still inside it. And all those me's it's created are out there. Stranded between the world they've come from and the one where none of this happened. The past sneaks up on me. The future forgets.

I busy myself look for the cure. Knowing there is none.