Too Much

Life as a palindrome

Photo by the author.

There is nothing left to give away.
Trinkets lead to skin, lead to life,
lead to blood, lead to dreams,
lead to death.

What can anyone give when nothing remains?
Reshuffling the world into combinations,
waiting for an authentic moment to emerge.
Yet, Echo herself is still heard.
There is nothing new under,
over, beyond.

Fresh air has staled,
and people retreat to caves of mirrors,
reflecting sameness outside of time.
Bodies atrophy while vocal cords
play dissonant tunes.
The pencil is dull,
meaning lifeless.