Somewhere in this orb
The psychosomatic gravity
Has slipped
Off—its Axis
This flaw
This long alleged defect
In our planet's subsistence
Means billions of minds question choices made—in life
And the self-respect of earthlings—has plummeted
To an unprecedented Low. Lower. Lowest.
So we introduced new street bins
recycling bins—emotional recoup
Instead of Glass. Plastic. Paper.
We have childhood … adulthood … maturity …
Disposal of one's beloved childhood toy—
In the childhood bin
Is immediately rejuvenated … revitalized … re-energized …
Back into their psychological disposition
In what is now considered a socially acceptable form
From this moment forward
Squander no more
‘Waste' removed from dictionary
No more misplaced righteousness
No more rolling dice
The adulthood bin is brimming
With belongings people bought
When they thought
… They had grown up
It harks back unbefitting memories
Which are morphed
… Into a flesh that is apposite
To one's cerebral shape
Mechanically like a candy machine
Put possession in the slot—instead of a coin
… and ding dong the witch is dead
Resulting in the individual
Circumventing the chagrin
Of owning such an incompatible item
Which then alleviates
The regret—
The misplacing of innocent youth
The bin that is comparatively empty
Is the maturity bin—such ignominy
Possessions planted into it
Aren't recycled—they're swallowed
Like a Big. Black. Hole.
It unleashes the past
No more regrets—no more ‘What ifs'
And all its contents facilitate
Repairing the psychosomatic axis itself
Rather than each individual's
Egocentric
Psychological
Condition
This poem is being published in Static Movements Literary Foray Anthology
