53.0

To The Hidden Ones:

Squalid and tired,

feeble and frail.

I’m sorry.

I really am.

But I don’t think you care, do you?

All you care about are your ephemeral friendships

your exiguous surface area

and the desire to disappear between two drops of rain.

My apologies

(or anyone else’s for that matter)

don’t make a dent in the least.

The blow of a god

shrinks instantaneously

upon caressing your aura

50 miles in circumference.

Bat your stiff eyelashes.

Stroke your layered hair.

Twist your limbs

oh so seductively

your existence teases the world.