Repopulated

Most of my friends are long departed writers. Away somewhere, busy specs of dust, earthly ruminations, global participants, stampeding tides. The rest are patient satellites, destitute sunbeams, molding cabins near forgotten mossy earth. Pieced together, unified in their human forms, fluttering words through the communal language. And we're appreciative. I am anyway, for my friends. Profound logic, morality, inanity, entrances to shared experiences. Shining light on everything we fail to recognize even as we wake immersed, bound. Our very lives, governed by documents of written language shedding accountability on primitive mechanisms. Movements shackled with compromise. Private thinking lorded over by public language. The brain belongs to society. The heart belongs to children. The soul is a shit word, but that thing, that thing which shall remain nameless, locationless, against recognition, that which we know, pray, kill to be true, flowering light obliterating the self, shall redeem, continue true energy from this communal prison, freeing that genius again.