Once

Once
by Keaton Foster



Once,
I dated
This girl.
She was,
Of course,
The world.
She had
No head,
No arms,
Nor legs.
She was
Motionless,
Obtuse,
Morose,
Just gross.
Putrid,
Diseased.
Plantable,
Said seed
To be buried
Quite deep.
Would she grow?
Unknown.
But that alone
Is the beauty
And tragedy
Of every idea.
Will they bloom,
Or will they die?
Inside we know,
Outside we won’t.
But as things go,
We do it anyway.
Logic is lost,
Surreal such reason.
We stand for
And by
What we wish,
What we believe,
No matter the cost,
Regardless of price.
Once,
I knew the truth
Beyond every lie.
I understood
Who she was
And why she was.
Her name?
Pointless.
Her identity?
Irrelevant.
Where is she from?
Where did she go?
Nowhere
Is the only
Apropos answer.
Is she alive,
Or is she dead?
Does she,
Or did she,
Ever even exist?
To that point,
I'll further express:
Existence,
Very much worthless.
And the promise
Of meaning
Is a prison
In which we all
Find ourselves living.
Except for her,
Of course.
Life had and has
Other meanings.
Once,
Let me be blunt:
You have no idea,
Not a damn clue
As to whom
Or which I speak.
This,
A lesson of sorts,
A simple stroll
Through a wilderness
Of absolute truths.
I did not kill her.
She was not dead
Because she herself
Was never real.
A made-up being,
A remedy
For my sickness.
A blustering,
Megalomaniacal
Preponderance
Of “As If’s”
Turned on its head,
Kicked in the teeth.
Bleeding ideas
As if they are
When in fact
They are not.
Once,
Not a real place,
Point, or time,
But rather an idea,
An ever-evolving grievance
Of indifference…


Once Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2019