So sad when someone asks
‘Why exist?’
and this is where
one is abstract:

ideas lead to deceiving for
societal and controlling truths.
One is one more tag than
that one, and the lame position

is somewhat like life.
We are poetry
and language is too, writing and
putting it on a desire.

That meaning shouldn’t explain
comfort zones for storytelling
is an argument about need,
the horrors imposed on quite

shallow pleasures.
Others, reading it, find their catalyst
in belief, whether it is yada yada yada
or a shorthand view.

But we have lost sight
of the poetic discussion
and if this is the last one, the one I write,
there’s no need to abhor what isn’t.