I read once

in a small-town newspaper

of a young woman who died piecemeal

ending with her heart, starting with her ring finger-

He ensured she would know only His infatuation.

Every night she was forcibly incarcerated in the underworld,

where her body would be severed, and her soul stolen.

Where have my ambitions

fled to? Tenements of my mind.

Starving younglings they have become,

while I lounge, insatiable,

spoiled,

expecting glory and 

awaiting attention

and not living victimized by, but perpetrating what I like to say I oppose,

because it makes me seem

nice,

and if that's only a speck

in the macrocosm of my egotistical aspirations,

the infinite list of everything you should acknowledge I AM,

well, then I should have to be ambitious

if I desire to be anything.

A

spinal injection

seems better now

contrasted with one minute

 whisper,

'Hi.'

Lingering on the unaccomplished.

Wallowing in palpable, straining sunbeams;

Envisioning a flow of energy,

a Nirvana

Competitions, posters, rivalries, democracies, speeches, essays...

Fulfillment!

Inevitably proceeding an annual mind-drought.

In a parallel celestial body

another vessel of space and time and dust and matter

where the moon is born old and grows young

there's that girl that everyone knows by name

and rumours seethe

of the kind of extra-curricular activity she engages in.

Aromatic heavy loud

intemperate atmosphere;

the perfect habitat

for her personal divergence,

her adherence to the tenets of the order of Tumult

of Yeah Whatever

of Yeah i'll b there with the...

THC-bearing leaves, or sensuality, or willingness

to turn their eyes and thoughts.

Onto Me.

Wait, no.

Her.

Get-togethers are literal in her opposite macrocosm

and she can hang out wherever

and all of the hundred words she knows how to dispense-

everyone will hang to them desperately

to receive a little fraction

of her.