What's For Sale?
The doorbell rings continuously with no patience.
approaching it makes you curious, but cautious
as you sway to the doorway, you glance through the two-by-two window
the transparent glass blurs the figure but you know exactly what to expect
as you pry the door open you gasp
a gasp not from shock or excitement but from the culprit in front of you
he wastes no time and unfolds a menu of some sort
explaining what he has for sell
what he is trying to infest your brain with persuasion
a menu filled bounteously with terms and items
pictures of organs and intangible items.
a conscience, love, clarity and the pursuit of existence
”you cant sell me these things, they are’t real”
you exclaim in a blunt manner
he says, these are yours.
you’ve lost them over a long duration
it’s you that wants to buy these.
these things belong to you.
”You are a robber sir, you know that?”
I accused, but he replied with, “I think you’re the robber here”
I gathered up my money and bought all that I could.
and as I walked inside feeling accomplished.
The surplus to these traits were only mere
pure shards of my life
tiny bits of my past
and as I endure them
I just feel like I have my entire life
empty, without a structured figure.
without a developed mind
without a feeling of warmth
with a corrupted self-worth
contained in a small glass tube.
Copyright © Carl Craighead | Year Posted 2007
|