Poetry: Modern Existence


Old woman  looking at the sky with fear


Nothing like a tightly wound spring straining

To uncoil unpredictably without

Warning at inconvenient moments.

More like a top, spinning in defiance

Of old, tired men who claim to have proven

Perpetual motion ephemeral.

So, no, I will not earn any headlines

For random or deliberate killing;

No, I will not merit headlines at all.

I will be content to register years

In some database in a nowhere place

Where not a soul or program will witness

The terror that fuels my rite of passage:

The enduring fear of relaxation.

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