Exist. Exist. Exist

                                     Exist.
They move hurriedly on vicious, filthy streets.
Rills of smears.
She arranges the skirt on her strangled-in-spandex broad hips
While attempting a carefree glance,
A confident and sprightly smile.
He puts back his fringe to cover the line of dull hair that recedes,
And holds tight under arm the folio case found on discount in a pile.
Look, the strawberries in the market are a bit moldy,
Never mind, still sweet.
Is a sunny day finally, after rainy weeks, so the salted taste of tears
Bothers her, she wishes the youth again, to make her eyes again lit.
He trembles on his cane, and reprovingly mutters to strangers
Old fears.
Their window is large open, the clichés sneak in furtively,
The pollutions flourish.
In a tirade about finances, they suffocate the emptiness of this too
Worn out day.
He sits with his legs crossed on the floor and extracts the fluff from
His toys.
They nourish, on the incipient stages of their infatuation, then they
Accuse the moon for the dismay
That erodes egos, when they discover the apathetic, reciprocal
Destiny of disarray.
                                      Exist.
You try to buy your happiness, is pricey and it overfills your
Corporeal state,
Yet the gratification is whimsical and slippery.
You haven’t changed your socks for a while, so the intensely
Active sudoriferous glands, inherited from your female parent,
Collaborated nicely with the bacteria that pullulate
On your dry itchy skin, soothed and groomed with baby oil.
I am inert when can’t write anymore, is a revelation
That occurred to me in this cold spring of
Existential frustration.
Sometimes, I beseech so greedily the penetration
Of daily, forgettable trivialities
That I feel animated the ache pulsating in my right temple.
We feel too haggard to mangle ourselves as to permit
A respiration of cold, fresh air for this tense blood.
Visible carcass, cultivated ego, we wouldn’t endure the unveiling
Of this masquerade of powerful, calm, and lenient creatures
That we play for them,
As for our tempestuous moods.
We deracinate white hairs with ravenous complacency,
And laugh madly at the thought of others dyeing theirs.

                                  Exist.
There is no right time.
To die. To live. To love. Paroxysmal delirium?
The snowdrops quiver on their way up, through stolidity
And alienation.
The pleasure scatters abruptly on extraneous fields, mined
With oblivion,
And their depth is always unforeseeable and vigilant.
More, the splendor
Of  promenades on exalted hills steadfastly fatigues your
Epic fervor,
And the dreams die at dawn.
There is just your time.

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