head full of pollen

hope is the tinder
awaiting a spark
to light the bonfire
of discarded dreams
or so it seems
sitting in a parking
lot with nowhere to go
and all day to get there

has never been
a virtue
just fertile
ground to
sow the seeds
of uneasiness
as the interminable
seconds cease
their infernally
arduous flow

i have
myself so often
in this silence
always finding
an extra part
when i finish
to toss with
the mounting pile
of discarded bits
until who i was
and who i am now
is a study in
the gentle art
of reduction
a shadow of substance
in pedantic prose

here is where
i would try to end
this barrage
with an uplifting
metaphor recentering
the sorrow into
a brief flash of
hope to balance out
the agony of sorrows
but that seems
disingenuous as
i choke on my heart
in a brittle storm of
anxious understanding
in some fucking
parking lot with
a head full of pollen

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