Future Past Tense

My future’s a goldmine
of the stupid
and asinine.

Whatever
tomorrow I procrastinate will
escape through my fingers, but
leave a lingering
aftertaste,

yesterday sounds on the
fabrics of
moving forward,
like a newborn that can’t
grow beyond its
womb,

genuine growth
stunted by its starting
height.

Disadvantage
feeding
into semantics, love songs that
change meaning depending
whom you
choose to slow
dance with;

praying mantis promising its
heart only to
decide it’s
appropriate to eat
me alive.

This is the world
the meek
inherit,
perpetual eves of
war, summer droughts
and discord.

This is
my future,
however fucked up and
falsified.

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