The incidence of déjà vu increases.
My favorite cinnamon replicated;
now the two nest side by side
in the cupboard. The weatherman
predicts sunny and clear and yet
fog has swallowed the lake.
Two dates with loved ones cancelled.
The insidious hint of death and
destruction tightens my chest.
I’m eating so if my well-
being depends on diet, how
fortuitous food is available still.
Someone is nearing the end
of life and for once I hope
it isn’t me. Finally peeling
back the layers of ignorance
forced by education and language,
the theft of my inheritance, the good
earth raped and pillaged, for sale and
all the money crying in cages of the
one percent–the catchy phrase we call
our masters lately. The propagandized
mind numb to the shadows.
I’m finally open to love, standing
to claim this darkness. The hoarders
seeped in greed surround me but
their narrative can’t resonate now.
Being well in the poisoned air
requires this deliberate, delicate
shift in the clear and present danger
of endless war on war,
just a horror story after all
to seize our waking dream.
I choose to sing instead.