I will not write about seeing through you, cliché cliché
I will not write about the grinding gears that stick and click and stay
I will not write about Mr. Machine, a robot on parade
I will not write about the dream that I had yesterday
Eight seasons, bones on the grass, the blacktop, the fallen pine needles. I tried to watch, but couldn’t forever and ever, like you. The seasons changed, and so did you. The sun hid well behind the endless clouds and I wondered if there would be anyone left by the time it came back out. I will not write about vampires, nightwalkers, or other creeping beasts that you became because I’m not here to weave the basket already woven. I’m here to put you in it and send you back down the river to meet your people and build your pyramids.
Sit on high, then. So it should be, but from that distance you miss the grains of the cobblestone and the way mud feels in your hands, sticks under your fingernails, colors your skin blue and red and all that you accomplish is everything you’ve ever wanted. I will not write about the bones under the dust because I step on them when I forget they’re there but at least I’m not stagnating. I’m marching, and you can see through me because I have nothing to hide as you do. I’m a dreamer and a creator and cliché cliché