Fred Aiken Writing

Neat particles tucked into my shirt

so they don’t look out of place,

there’s a place in the woods

where answers that no one asked get answered by elusive

woodland creatures that take hallucinogens

as a way to feel something;

depite creating a mess and leading to

answers with open-ended responses,

in a terrible development of denial,

rejection, and song lyrics with poetic

nonsense,

contemplating the syntax of a mind never at ease with its lack of limbs,

that cannot climb a single void,

despite training marathons in a gym with no coach,

constantly screaming at itself to go faster,

be better,

be stronger,

there will never be an end in sight,

until there is,

there it is