They require compliance
in matters of tradition.
Beholden we are to these burdens
and cling to them as a boa constrictor would -
slowly choking themselves on each respire.

We take our place in the mindfuck spectacles
spent, empty and feeling nothing.
What prevailing grief we feel lets out slowly
and stains the killing floor in silence.
I think of the blood from slaughtered domestic stock
and it’s unending spate leading to nothing and nowhere.

Damaged souls we are -
mindlessly consuming our own flesh.
Scouring floors and visiting the medicine cabinet for relief.
A salve for our scraped knees.
A tonic for our misdirected fortitude,
A fast dissolve capsule to numb all discounting from our purpose.
We hardly recognize ourselves.
And yet, all the answers linger
On this side of the reflection
just slightly out of reach.

words © malai 2012