Future Days 06/10/24

To A Writer

So let’s begin with what you tell us,

your point.

The struggle is useless,

the story’s written.

We’re merely interesting martyrs,

insects transfixed to thrash.

Part of your process.

I have no right to succour,

no need for charm,

but you will not take my right to rage.

We can’t die badly,

that might ruin your ending.

Yet we can’t live well,

for that might ruin your middle.

I stand on scarlet ground,

with scars your credit card retraced.

You will not sell what remains to me,

hope will not fatten what my pain has purchased.