The last outpost of qualm


While the boot slights the sentient, he tries to snag hope like a falling antique before it hits the floor.

The person who laughs isn’t always really laughing…

…his authentic passion eroded by a disregard that disintegrates enthusiasm.

This is your king’s world. We are just living in it.

I stare. You pretend to care. My slowly giving up is a sequence now solved as what was invisible to you eventually made me feel the same.

What a waste. You did so little to get involved, so my investment became just another place at the end of everyday’s car ride… But still, to wait for another’s circumstances to change my own is where the wake of worry is wry.

Sardonic. Ironic. This is your king’s world. We are just living in it.

Ergo… as the contrast of the Light duly dismisses the darkness, I see it fitting to sample buoyant irreverence: where mine is solvable by action, your residency will agitate silently in the last outpost of qualm.

Ironic. Sardonic. Is hate toward a coward just cowardice itself?

The change we wait for will wilt us. The change we charge for will cheer us.

And… somewhere in this charge and the compendium of its crazy, a chorus will come from the chaos:

“…your king doesn’t rule here anymore.”


© Dylan Balkind


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