Dystopia

My body is weak; aching.

My mind is strong; suffering.

I allow the anxiety to fester

ignoring the pertinent issue

telling myself:

it will all work out,

or it won't.

I am content

with discontent.

I look into the lifeless

eyes of the field mouse

left for me on my porch,

I stare and stare

searching for meaning.

I walk inside

as if nothing happened.

I continue to think

about that mouse,

did it suffer?

If so, then for how long?

I put it out of my mind.

I am content

with discontent.

The next day there is

a baby cat bird

and I think about

their annoying call

that they won't be able

to do anymore.

Their voice,

muffled and disabled.

Two days later

a mole who can

neither see nor hear

flattened on the road

trusting their senses to

get them safely across

the road.

Flies are surrounding it

feeding on its source.

I pass by that mole

everyday on my way to the

mailbox and I realize

I can at least give a

passing thought for the

mole, for their life,

for the flies who feed

have no regard to the loss.

I am no longer content,

with being discontent.