Simon Says

What's not to love about the process. Fig leaves stomped into the garden's floor. The pretty chaos we like to call happiness. In shoulders heavy. In the daze of weary crossing guards. The path is mapped. In pastel footprints only corpses can see. Magic funerals where dying is the prefect climax to a life barely lived.

The sequence. In stormy dualities. Judges young equations. As they struggle with the demands of logic. Truth in plain sails. The wind anything but compliant. As paper sketches our course across lines of wind.

I couldn't cheat the devil. I'm not that clever. I couldn't convince the angels. I'm not that pitiful. So I just said what I was thinking. I just asked for what I wanted. Hoping never to get it.

What would there be to do then?

Simon says, stop counting. Stop trying to prove what you already know.