doing your best

poetry

it’s friday night
as the last flight leaves from houston
as i look out the window
it seems that all the lights are on
but it is actually a great
burning trash pile
attracting something much bigger than a bear

the engines on the plane churn
like mule-less mills but from
whence do they find their motion?

from the parasites eating away at you
from your unasleep mind racing
fretting about your disorganized soul

and you cannot make out
what comes around the horizon
nor have you the strength
to blow the smoke away

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