The Life of the Man Next Door

The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm

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What reason have I to be repulsed by my own species?

My own kin, as if my mind is abstract enough to separate it from theirs.

None. Not one that is fair

Because I am as much of a product as they are

Forced to stare at my loved ones

Blue faced in an extravagant prayer laced box

Worth more flimsy green paper than I could accumulate in two years time

And am told to call it closure

As if it wasn’t a complete and utter disgrace to the deadman

Whose soul twitches with embarrassment

Under sorrowful empty eyes.

I’d much rather be a wort covered toad,

Or a writhing worm stuck to the pavement.

A beetle under a shoe,

Or an unwatered blade of grass.

Yes, maybe then, I could leave this foul world in peace when it is my time leave it.

No one would look twice.

No one would have to lower my lifeless carcass into a box

That was half heartedly decorated by the hands of a laboring child

Who never saw my face,

But had to take something home to mother so they could afford supper that evening.

No one would bother to stare.

Maybe then I wouldn’t be cradled like a fool

Or kissed with formaldehyde

As if humans actually cared.

5/24/17

revised: 8/27/17

Author: Lannah Mary

An overly-friendly environmental activist, singer, and self-taught writer.

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