Macro Poetry

Even
big ideas
born
into
cramped
quarters can’t leave
home
indefinitely.

When elbows
meet knees and they’re using
corners to cry
themselves
to sleep,

a whole generation
lost where
they found
wonder as

the sweetest
faces the same
number of
paces from
the cadence of
a flawed blueprint

for folks
doing
their best
to adapt under

the latest of
barely
ideal
circumstances.

One drunk under
awnings our fathers told us wouldn’t always
occupy our sadness did
indeed
pass away, only for
another to descend in
to madness and assume

the dead
man’s face.

Our dances
with downfalls won’t
be the same
as those
before us

but since
stasis forms the
basis of

our ascent,

it’s getting
hard to
believe it ever
started

with a jump.

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4 thoughts on “Macro Poetry

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