“Dear Sir,”

There is sanctity in oxygen, a saintly creation in exhalation
There is exaltation in forgetting rumination and finding quiet,
A slumber that slips deeply through the mud filled dredges of my soul,
Here, the badgers and moles do not dig for they know that the earth is Holy.

There is autonomy in morality, pick the book that suits you best;
Philosophy’s a tool remains a constant
Not one’s decided from the rest.

Sir, remember your roots and the bark of the tree
The little initials etched into green flesh
A growing reminder, knotted out of legibility

A recurring story without direction,
One man left deserted and alone,
Left to rot in a tin pot coffee shop,
Looping playlists never unfurling

Only so many corners to turn to, he gazes for the eastern horizon,
Searching for a life away – separate,
Sipping a diluted shot of something dark that slowly dries

Sir, the coast calls and reaches and though
you were raised with sneeches on the beaches
the only stars upon thars are the typical fish.

feeling the screen of his computer embrace him
way that he has never known before,
He checks addiction off of his bucket list.

his gnarled fingers only show age on the inside
the air isn’t cold but he shivers and shrugs a coat
weighted shoulders that have known too much of the world.

Sir, close your eyes and rest, the worst is said to be over
they’ve got heated seats, and padded soccer cleats
so anyone can do something great.

Sir, close your eyes and rest, the worst is said to be over
they’ve got heated seats, and padded soccer cleats
so anyone can do something great.