Crumpled Disregard

The starched imprints in a mauve-colored tunic decay,

as Mother throws herself down the yellow, plastic slide.

A sea, unmoving, tranquil, still,

as our moon decides to cancel the tide.

On the axis, she turns,

ballet slippers in pointe,

breaking every toe,

while each airplane in flight

falls from the sky.

We approach dystopia

like a forgotten friend

we thought would never

leave our side.

In Peru, the llamas and alpacas finally differentiate,

while owls flock to Antarctica,

the only place they’ve never lived.

Capitalism cease to exist, because we all

decide to return to the woods,

where rustic yurts encircle our every whim.

Lifetimes regurgitate the heartbeats you

once sang out to me, and another planet

crosses into orbit, a bridge conveniently

sprouting across planes of reality.

We leap, our bones becoming stardust as gravity dissipates,

astronauts outlaw religion, so we hope for faith.