one day he wanders off
leaves the nice woman with the
loud voice calling
leaves her submerged in open mouthed
snores
he opens the door
the slippers conveniently waiting
and,
simple as that,
he's off.
"your feet can find you
even when you are lost
they are still there,
loyal,
when you look down.
they may stumble,
trip,
but bruised and complaining
they are stuck to you,
as stuck as shadows
even in darkest of times."
the ground may shift and blur
as it has a penchant to do
the world likely won't hold still
some fool claimed it spins
it circles and circles
"but I know different.
the world is
a table top
with a chess board.
my opponent
has switched the pieces,
and when that didn't work,
earthquaked and overturned
the game
to meaninglessness.
I've forgotten whose turn it was anyways."
what was here a moment ago
(and what is a moment?
a day? a decade?)
what was just here
is gone, replaced:
"there was kiawe
grown wild like the
wave of kanagawa (wasn't there?)
frozen in the midst of
submerging dry plains.
but now there are houses
built up high,
houses like empty monastic cells of coral
bleach white
and stacked like a thousand thousand
empty graves
the remains of a genocide.
coral
like crushed rock
under my feet."
what is here?
what is now?
he scratches an itch.
the world drifts.
he will drift too.
"I know
there is no starting the game over.
the rules have been broken
and there is no sense in
making new ones again."
the rhythm of feet
(so loyal)
will carry him
somewhere.
else.
and he's off.
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