If it comes up

When you bow your head,
when the mountain looms before you,

lofty or otherwise,

when you see that perhaps
the best way forward is not
through the snow,

but back
through the deep,

just call out to those
who should have helped you
the whole way along,
those who had the power,

but didn’t bother.

Call out to the ones whose lives
your sacrifice
would’ve made better,

if they only cared to help.

It’s not your job
to save the oceans;
its not your job
to stem the rising tide.
It’s not your job
to make it better.

You were never what made it bad
to begin with.

It isn’t your blood
poisoning the sky.
It isn’t your wishes
burning the bones of children.

We sail on with digital dreams
and cry into rice paper
and hope that maybe
someone can
make sense of it
when we’re all done.

A little clarity, even.

But all we ever do
is muddy the waters
with our frantic struggles.

Maybe sometimes it’s best
to just
lie down
and die.

No tags for this post.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.