Where it all will end, knows God

Fowler Earl

Washed backward were thoughts, folded and spun into the corners of the mind. Neatly aligned, the drawers were never left by these thoughts. Asked were the questions, though provided were never the answers. Necessary, were these questions? Known by no one, that is.

Spilled, the coffee was, before drunk me by. Placed somewhere they shouldn’t have been, the shoes were. Set was the alarm, but late was the waking hour always. Found were the shoes, but mates were often missing from them, as if unity were meant to be never. Solved, such mysteries were not. Remained, they did.

Spent were the days in pursuit of productivity, though achieved, productivity was rarely. Written with good intentions, the to-do lists were, though completed, they were never. Attempted was work, but halfway through forgotten was it, much like the keys on the counter left. Misplaced, such things were. Revealed by time only, the car was parked somewhere, but whether found again, it would be, who could say?

Folded, the laundry was, but put away, it was never. Stacked and forgotten were the piles of clothes, as if living in perpetual laundry limbo a habit was. Unmatched, the socks were, and wrinkled, the shirts always, as if to mock the idea of organization, conspired they. Surprised, none were. Meant to be, this was just the way were things.

Burned, the food was, but minded, did no one. Enjoyed it was nonetheless, though promised, flavour a mere suggestion was. Set was the table, but pulled out, the chairs were often not, as if sitting was too much for to ask. Hovered, a strange sensation did in the air, as if an unspoken understanding existed that everything would be fine, even if it wasn’t, wasn’t it?

Lived, the days were, passing unnoticed, as if a series of events happening to someone else, life was. Made were the decisions, but questioned, they were often, and left to be determined by forces far beyond comprehension, the future was. Happening next, what would be? Said, who could, to that? Continued, the questions would be asked.

Worth it, was it all in the end? Needed, were answers truly, or was the point all along the asking? Said, it was once, “The journey more important than the destination is,” though reached, destinations were rarely, and started, journeys a clear start never seemed to have. Accepted was this, as in Trump’s turvy-topsy America it was the only way had been things ever.

Running the FBI and the Pentagon manifest drunkards and criminals are. Health and human services ruining braindead Kennedy is. Acetous Gabbard Tulsi the hairdo of Lanchester Elsa in Frankenstein of Bride modelling. The asylum inmates running are. Backward ran sado-populism till reeled the refugees.

Things one has no intention of delivering promise and when materialize they don’t, “the others” blame. Colbert sack, Kimmel cancel because in free speech believe we. Blake William’s “mind-forged manacles” of superstition and religious totalitarianism refasten. At a Mississippi campus, Black student by white vigilantes Monday lynched? Again we go here?

End, where it will all be, known by no one, is.