Unthings

I stumbled barefoot through fractured noon, Where lamplight bloomed like a fossil's tune. The sky was stitched with electric thread, Held up by whispers from things long dead. The clocks ran backward, then sideways, then wept, And time was a sock no one had kept. The trees grew bells instead of leaves, And wolves wore monocles, eating beliefs. Not just dire ones—oh no, much worse: There were squid that sang in Morse code verse, And pigeons quoted Baudelaire, Sipping gin in perfumed air. The mammoths glowed in silent prayer, And lizards preached from folding chairs. The moon had teeth, the rivers laughed, And gravity forgot the craft. "Welcome," hissed a beetle in tweed, "To the Archive of Unnatural Need. Here we keep what should’ve stayed gone, What science stitched and ego spun." They hadn’t just brought back one lone beast— They rewrote nature's birthday feast. A party of errors, a cake of regret, I asked them, “Why?” They answered, “Yet.” And in this world of brilliant wrongs, Where dinosaurs sang breakup songs, I felt a tug—not fear, but awe— As if I’d slipped outside the law. A camel danced with a one-eyed crow, A snail grew wings and wouldn’t slow. And through it all, a hum remained— A grief we’d never yet explained. For every creature bore a cost, A barcode scar for what we lost. They weren’t just beasts; they were our proof That hubris hides in labcoat truth. And yet, amid the chaos bright, I saw strange moments born from light: A child who tamed a clockwork bear, A blind man learning how to stare. We made a world with curious seams, Where ancient blood now fuels new dreams. And though it shivered, cracked, and bled, It lived more loudly than our dread. I left the gate with pockets full— Of squawking seeds and lullaby skulls. And now and then, at night I hear A humming in my soup or ear. I smile, remembering all that sings In that wild land of almost-things. And wonder still, with cautious glee, If it was real… or just in me.