Extraordinary Ordinances

I wonder about the weirdest things;

what are rings without their rocks but circular metals? Is evil contestable or is it just changing us like socks? Why do politicians wince when they talk? Are there, like, Coles Notes for struggle, DIY guides for watching status quos crumble? Is the voice of God guttural or even English?

Are we the loneliest lifeform, too conspicuous to befriend, or just super anti-social when preserving anything but ourselves (you may argue otherwise, but it’s aborting common sense).

I care about the weakest things;

both my heart and child, the arrhythmia of their wildest aspirations. Love of my life, for her strength drives me both to drink and recovery, however bloody the

wars of tone become.

About feeling in my legs that still want to run before they have walked; about the remorse experienced before you’ve been caught.

To fall in love with stupid things;

the voice in your lungs that just wants to scream, the veins of your voice that just want to bleed a song, a singalong sense of justice served.

I wonder about the weirdest things,
and they are turned into words,
all of empathy’s eulogies channeled
into what’s questionably
verse,
and I await
its
reversal of
five seven fives
into something
alive
with
the flames
of fortune,

extraordinary
ordinances
of
reconstituted
remorse,

all that holds these small
divides together.

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