Summer bile.

Every evening I say goodbye.
How many times? To the day, then to the night.
Can’t remember even a single one.
A residue of some impression of some sentiment.

It’s time like this I have to escape,
propelled by the resentiment of a lazy satisfaction.
Why do I feel tired just to return?
The trash’s still outside, the same couple just passed by.

If the view’s ocean’s end, or the martian soil,
will I still feel the need to pollute paper with my bile?
I may still pity myself just to see if I’m capable.
A drop in the ocean of inert particles.

It’s not blue, it’s gray & white & colorless.
The oppressiveness is felt through the closed window.
Artificial breeze bellows for the creatures inside,
who are cut off, sequestered, cornered & comfortable.

The summer’s cooking something rotten.
Pop the lid, bear the smell & the sight of the skeletons.
The water rises, the sun bakes, pay no attention.
Don’t worry, be happy, nothing ever really happens.

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