Like moths to some narcotic flame,
We all feel this fascination but personally:
I can’t stand the crowds.
Noisy malls and interminable festive obligations which strike me
As insignificant like some cyclic slavery of gambled horses or apoplectic men
Wrestling over the axioms and resting places of small leather bladders
Or the fates of nations and currency exchange.
The strangest thing is not in alienation
But in mistaking participation as owing us purpose or closure
When below the surface we all feel this emptiness (but interpret it differently).
We’re all choking on the experience we feel obliged to
Share and as flickering candles to each other
We in equal measure blind and guide in the darkness
And chill vacuum of space.
Whatever way we choose to translate this shared Fact or Memory
It always ends in so much silence,
Charcoal and trampled grass.