Anarchy

We spent a fortnight with wander as nourishment, only to enter a ghost town hanging on a hot wire of dissolution Was it fate’s answer to our endless grumbling— the dissatisfaction of being ordinary Joes, ploughing fields for doughs that sell as sloppy Joes— that we plunged ourselves an ocean too deep, able only to watch as each breath became fire, fanned by spontaneity and gimmicks alike? We wrestle underneath the wave, underneath the cyan blue. A flute plays a tune. For Arabic nights, the waves swayed in rhythm— a gladiator game we had grown accustomed to. Every throw, a splinter gained. Every huff and puff, red ink painted We wrestle, flaking waves with every chance we get, hoping to reach the surface we abandoned for the charming blue An inch too high— even on our tiptoes, it remains just so, as fire blazes its way home to minds aching for prison break An inch too far, we drop like fleas, as fate cleanses anarchy, a taint on its terracotta design, preserving the natural order. Each step from it was not our doing, but a clerical error, bent on drilling a lesson home that lodges for eternity: some dreams remain just air— vents to a house combusting with envy, vents to dissatisfaction, or risk a sweet drow