The Thoughts of a Small Fry

A speck of dust on a dirty window.

Insignificant blebs bobbing

Part of someone’s uneven skin.

Pay him no heed

A trifling, rifling through life,

A burden that has no place on their back,

Hanged on the gallows and beheaded by a guillotine.

Who cares though?

Certainly not them.

More importantly, who cares who cares?

 

Feelings are chemicals

Yet they ensnare us more than a bear trap.

My human brain tells my human mouth to say the most inhuman things.

The rustling of a remorseful man on his deathbed

So much left unsaid

No matter,

For it is as the Africans say,

One day, the charcoal seller’s son will wear a white shirt and smile.

Incidentally,

That day has yet to arrive.

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