• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 12
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The Weight of the World

the weight of the world is hung on nothing
babies are weighed by the sky alone
His field lies barren of hope
evidence of arrogance
yet beautiful still
beautifully still

green and pleasant lands
making way for en route
harsh lines of man-made
to house the souls
with gold-lined pockets

lions, tigers, and bears
the imagination of midwives
the air is still with prophecy
nightmares soothe the conscious
darkness inhabits daylight
danger is pleasant
taste an illusion
sight an inappropriate joke
hearing is malevolence
tactility; fear
yet all surmounts to a fleeting gasp
that partially fills artificial lungs
that have replaced what held
the air of here once.