my duties, near non-existent, still i neglect them

having no meaning 
is not a 
sad nor depressive 
state. it is 
one of coolness 
on forehead, 
when pressed 
to windowpane. 
Summer’s thunder-
storm rages. 

mote of dust.
puff from floorboard.
old wooden house,

meaninglessness is 
a hammock 
slung between two 
weeping willows
at pond’s edge.
burp and bark. 
insects buzz 
a sex-fueled song. 
wind caught
in tall Summer 
grasses, parting, 
brief glimpse 
of old tombstones. 
bodies underneath
green dirt, long 
ago relieved of
their earthly dance.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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