Of The People

The great silver goal.

I aim to be like people

To be another drop in a bath of tepid

Restraint.

They get everywhere, like sand between toes

And who knows, why?

They wrap up warm

And defend themselves against

Water.

People are vicious forests

of pink to dark brown.

Leggy trees that spread easier

Than lukewarm margarine.

I never felt at home among them.

I can only ever scream

from up there, on the ridge,

Afar.

Yes, look down. Imagine a Christmas burn

Across them.

So warming, with a sweet hanging smell

That stays around forever.

And at last I am with them.

My kind. We may now dance

Without fear of the blade’s gravitas.

Their hair once shocked me,

Its ingenious variance.

I assumed it was like a fleeing dream

A thread of thought flowing from their heads.

Their mouths too; unspeakable.

From here pure plastic is dropped

Ready to be shaped.

In this, each of them was a master.

They became increasingly creased over time;

Matched only by the endless new folds

In their China Skulls.

They started to shake.

The cosmic variance?

No. Just a mild buzz to dust ratio

As they unravelled towards the ground, below.

They were better than me.

I failed the endless rites

They laid on.

I could not pass.

Alas, I will instead, form my own kind.

The envious spike I am.

For who wants to be of the people?