A small wooden cross was left on a page.
Jesus wishing he could tuck his arms into his ribs;
outstretched and awkward as a strangers
bathroom mirror smile.
I snapped the arms off quite easily
like insect wings,
and it seemed to have
the very same significance.
A magnifying glass eye happened to have been left
on the newspaper, on the obituaries,
on someone with a very similar name
in a cemetery a small walk away.
I give the same amount of consideration
to God as I do my own mortality;
there is simply time for neither..
maybe an eternity when I am gone
I'll have found reason for my existing
and still be able to go back
and live without a sense of urgency.
Even then,
I'll believe only in the womb of the star
burning after death
in embryonic sustaining,
with life’s only real solution;
to forget, forget so utterly
as to be reborn.
I'll feel Deja-Vu,
and inspiration deeply embed
for the millionth time;
contemplating the sunflower in your hair.
Glad that I can pass you, looking back
and not so swathed by apathy
as we are towards the end, filled with so much dread
when the sunflower has lost its meaning;
with its brittle crown, stem leaning
and weak arms outspread.
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