My Will vs. They Will

Whistling breeze cuts bit air, its invisible

cruelty spitting down our arms, stomping

round goosebumps called forth

tragic depths. Generation aesthetic,

lusting for the mirrors sake. Adorning

shimmer and dazzle, outside the bounds

of inner reflection. Dropping tears for the pleasing

sound of their sizzle. Bombs

level. We methodically rejoice

for the blur we have become. Deaf

to the screams of plucked petals. Blinded

by the dim of drown light. Sovereign Pathos,

we have fallen. Resentful of the content

prickly pear. Pulling weeds that challenge sweet

fruits' growth. We cannot afford

to mumble, any longer remain

a supporting brick in a crumbling

wall. Usher two steps

this way. Remove the froth. Allow

our blemishes to scab over. Accept

an I need not dot itself.