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A cryptic poem about a made up person, places, and often reality. |
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 |