The Positivists

Another day in the world, which is why.

Gasping 'til you're hoarse with breath doesn't make it real
Even if you gallop off into the unknown,
That great body of the globe that cannot be possessed.

I was speaking a language formed entirely of gibberish,
I pretended that I did not know its meaning,
So the endings of the sounds in my acquaintance
Became entirely new, and composed secrets
That had never been uttered yet in the mystery of this earth
And would be never again, because the spontaneity
Which made me breathe these ay's twisted into a green yew
Was entirely lost in the passing, and beyond recollection,
Scattered over the globe as it was, over the winds.

Then I cried a tear for loneliness, but it was only passing fleet:
No one understood the silence between words
And no one wanted to. Worse still were those who did,
Or claimed too, and I hear in the echo of their blue lips
The bird call of my own mort tongue, perverted
Into a stillness, a solemn lake, a drug
That is anger to those who partake and suffers
For those who observe. Fortunately there are not many watchers
In this day and age, and we all forget the rage,
The anger in which we began,
With which we end.

I would spit on you all but it would be a sad drop,
Fragile, refractive, glowing like a misty globe,
And almost like a tear.