like i never even cared

So there is this thing that i like to call progress.

It sits and waits patiently while I encircle its reach,
fumbling lecherously in front and behind.
Unfurled and delectable she brings me to a fold and a eyelash:
I am made humble in this divine presence.
After every look is a bite, at the end of it all.

I look and cannot help myself.

Others see passage where I only see isolation and false depth,
probed to the extent of its necessity.
We put all our hopes and dreams into this preternatural evolutionary path,
wanting a future like the warm, friendly hug of a straightjacket.
We turn together and find pleasure in this, in it all and everything that it is not.
"Does the vulture believe in progress when it finds another carcass?"
-- once this had been asked, there was little comfort
with typical and daily tragedies.

Instead of revolution, I learned absolution to be necessary:
a way to forgive oneself for one's own transgressions,
rather than those of a vocal and sociable past.

We bring ourselves to the height of it all and lie fallow.

Spent, I waited for my income to rise again.
It became quite clear to me that dialog was impossible.
She never felt the same again.

A diner once taught me that after every individual, all of society is a mute point and simultaneously an in situ violation of the self. It took a positive regression for me to fully understand this.