On froth

Scurry backwards and forwards again and again and every day
deceived by the possibility of growth and progress,
yet remain at none better than a standstill;
a constant state of disequilibrium.
Should I wear my desert boots today? Did you hear the news on Aleppo? Drinks after work? I’m gonna write the dead janitor a card even though I’ve never acknowledged his existence. WILL EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP?
Rid your pride and open your fucked up eyes.
Notice the new janitor.
No one cares about the same brown boots you wear every day.
The world houses more than your mammoth Ego
so realise that transitory talk on those less fortunate quenches no more than your thirst for moral reassurance.
Why do we all scramble up the same ladder
when the path diverts into narnia like deltas.
This meaningless life screams meaningLESS, floundering in the high tide of all this



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