fruitless

Trees that never blossom and grow fruit. Cactus in the desert, thorny stabs at first approach. Ah, yes but their bulbs are filled with water or aloe vera, or some hydrating, nourish sustenance. Sandy hourglass trickles through Time. Some Arabian Nights early-Hollywood fantasy. Where white men still get all the roles. To succumb and adapt and still not get it. Hopeless, desperate, dejected, depressed. Everything you do is for nothing, for naught, forgotten, forgot. I plead with hands outstretched, a perfect dove shadow-puppet, flapping fake-winds and not getting anywhere. The air is different here. It is the grand illusion where I have no wings and nowhere to land. This is not West Caldwell Airport. JFK Jr will not come back to life. Smile immortalized on newspaper headlines and documentary archival footage. Wading through memories that are not mine. It feels strange to slip on another stranger’s skin and walk through. And even then how could I possibly understand? I would never presume to. Human compassion can get you close, but cannot duplicate the experience of what it is like to be someone else exactly, someone else untouchable. These pears are infertile and will not blossom. They didn’t feel like it today. Not in the mood. Unconvincable, unpersuadable. Seeds were planted and the soil sucked. The soil sucked them dry. They got eaten by animals. They got forgotten and buried and did not activate.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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