Failure starts it’s morning with cream of wheat,
gone cold, with nothing added.
Failure is gender-fluid
a serial hostage taker and sociopath
just like their parents:
Fear and Guilt
no one would guess how liberal they are
and close knit too
the three spend their days playing Life
over. And over. And over. – before lunch
having justed moved from a Temporal Lobe ghetto
to a gated community in the Frontal Lobe
the family is moving up in the world
(such social mobility clearly dictates that they are not in an America)
There is no table yet for the steamed spinach
so they nitpick on their knees
in between constructive critiques
Fear proclaims “this redolence is making me nauseous”
and heads to the bathroom
there isn’t a finch at the sound of gagging
for the next half hour
Guilt leaves the meal for a run
Failure, devoted as they are,
takes the bowl
now exactly three ounces lighter
throws plastic wrap mindlessly at it
because
“What’s the point?”
shoving it in a fridge swearing it will be consumed
the rotting dishes around it
dub it one of their own,
“broken promise, 7 of 9’
Resistance is futile
all hope leaves with the overhead light
as the door closes.
The sun dial cannot move without access to the sun
but it can be read by the dust and webs collected as hours pass
attention to detail is failure’s strength and a weakness of it’s twin,
Success.
Captivated by their own pride
failure falls victim to time
and is jumped by darkness
Fear and Guilt
hear and ignore their pained wailing
even as it shatters the walls
and consumes the nation
only smirking when they halt the torture
an eon after the midnight hour
wiping clean the hands of time
so that they can rest wrapped snugly
in his vows of tomorrow’s potential
SickyBeat 