Must humanity be perpetual
for expression to be infinite?
Must societies stay small
for our art to be intimate?
If a tree falls on a half-finished canvas
can it be in canon, in conversation?
Are unfinished thoughts really things,
or merely shadows? Shades from different timelines,
only here to signal death, left on the vine, rotten,
but a swelling glass of Blush some place
where cosmic difference is no matter.
We all really want the same things.
To eat and to drink and to not get fucked.
Everyone needs a new reason.
We all want love flowing in and out.
A dead person's words are just
failed assertions of still-being.
Expression is just
another way of saying
The world is not the world without me
of saying I exist, don't you forget it
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