the seat of scorn

Unable to detangle myself from my form, 

what is my function?

I am the mocker. I am the fool. 

(I can’t even remember to be compassionate.)

This narcissistic modernity, our newest delight

is in finding ourselves within ourselves, 

teach the children to find food in their skin!

(God is not loud enough for us, we will eat the people)

Friends are really just mirrors, their voices 

are fuzzy behind the glass, so we will

just tell stories about ourselves over and over and

play with our hair. Maybe we’ll hear it

if they say we look nice today. Glamorous laughter rings.

And yet, inside these cubes of glass, fists are pounding outwards, 

desperate to be truly known and to know.

So many a teary eye is turned inwards again and again, 

spiralling to pieces, rather than

reaching out and anchoring up and down,

finding roots in rot and glory

nourishment through decay and refining. 

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