Still, in Fast Forward

Stalks of hay,
wheat or barley.
I cannot tell.
I do not know.

Silhouetted heads
sway in breeze
‘fore a pale sky
thick with clouds.

Quickly,
they roll west,
falling fast
past setting sun.

Not the fast of rapid wind,
but of fast forward film.

I wake to sirens.
I wake to city lights.

I recognize these sights.
I know these sounds.
They are my home.
They hold my heart.

I ponder my dreams,
doubt my birth,
and question my own reflection.

In the contrast,
I knew I was.
I don’t so much.
Not anymore.

Still life against motion.
Performances echoing
within hollow snail shells
In which I hide my soul.

Do you not forget yourself
in those bustling moments
when you can’t find your keys?

Do you ever stop
to question the you
staring back
from behind the glass?

Does it ever cross your mind
to slit your clit
to fall through time?

Spellcheck has the damnedest job
telling me how to live my life.
Knit-picking me piece by piece,
frivolously reinventing plight.

Danger lurks in the alleyway.
Dangerous fever from the flu.
The shotgun nestled firmly under
the dimpled chin father gave to you.

Blasting off, into space,
just in time to win the race.
I call your name across the field,
knowing cancer to never yield.

Nonetheless,
I do not know if hay,
Wheat or barley.

Still.
I cannot tell if I ever was.

Still,
in this field of fast forward.

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