I see an elevator

I pull the boots
Up by their straps
Of tobacco colored leather

*

My feet fit neatly into the soles

*

All the gods I never knew
see me for who I am
a quiet solitary creature


*

I have moved into the realm of forgotten dreams and work by rote, routine, focus and the patchwork shreds of dignity that I scraped off the sole of your boot. I taste the bitter anguish on your tongue and spit the residue, dirty soap, onto the saturated ground. Watching it roll over and away, forgotten not useful, we're at flood stage and the last thing we need, here, is more moisture.

*

Why, suddenly, am I full of vitriol? Perhaps it is all of the times I've heard someone say, smile; or that I've bitten my tongue until I taste copper and blood; perhaps it is the pain of self-reflection and no longer making excuses for myself, which makes the excuses as a whole thin, paper thin, snowflake fragile, and not at all important.

*

I have no responsibilities to anyone; I have no one to answer to. With no god to answer to, how is morality even relevant?