Social Contracts of a Societal Collapse

I am but a pilgrim among poets,
both human and hopeless on
my collision course with God.

I am one
flap on a box
bound for remote
communities robbed of
equinox.

One drop of blood in a lake of
oil that bubbles and
roils.

Single shade of torment in a world
of toil that’s forgotten
social contracts
chasing
collapse.

A handful of soil,
beautifully spoiled, that struggles
and toils to realize saplings.

I am both
pauper and royal,
proper but rebellious;
a monster of
my circumstance but
celibate in bite.

I’ve felt its
religious arson arc
around my being;
nefarious documents
commission monuments of orange that will
pour down hillside dawns

and eclipse
them like
a torrent rips lone currents from
oceans’ bottom.

I am but a falling leaf in
autumns of avarice, and even at
my maddest,

I’m engineered to be
blown away.

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