Counter

I am in the margin.
Calculate the difference
between attraction numbed and life
trashed in the crushed ravenous horde.
People the divide with howling horned
phantoms, their wisps of curling skin reclining in
the just don’t care, that precious
just don’t care.
Skylarks treading humble swaths of sparked lights,
speckled feet
broadening out
curves ranging platitudes coursing down rebelling lips.
What am I, we mutter in secret,
as we quietly flip the deadening everyday script.
The world whispers scattered skeletons
to march upon the flesh, and we lie in wait
for our wisps to run pale and dry.
Of course my friends, let us die, the margins
snickering, the horde rampaging, and those brief rays of
sunlight always sneaking past our dull gray lives.