The thing’s already written before I can even begin to pen it,

slipping loose all that will not produce at least some sympathy.


It must carry, from this, moment to moment, to the last,

Live long after I notice, to perceive, perceive to notice.


To get out the way, or cause harm fast,

handing out antennas, aerials, and lightning, to each victim alike.


That secret broken handshake, temporarily abated, must connect.

Free pieces, petrified through days, weeks, years, disbelief.


Every action a reaction to each minutia of this process,

images imagined that help condemn, combine, or celebrate.


My refusal to intervene must be a way of saying nothing,

each mark made, a snaky capricious inkblot.


New roots formed with every attempt to do similar,

all effort fraudulent our cause and answer to the problem.


I will not try for as long as I honestly can,

more than enough damage has already been done.




© Greg Fiddament 2018


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