Fertile is the mimicry

I raise my hand

and thus accept the blame.

Let our texting little fingers

spell out the code of conduct

for this game.

And I’ve chosen to accumulate

reasons to abort

the technique bestowed

with favor

on the heads of those

who won’t

let themselves give in.

Our matchbox dreams

are reappearing

with no end

to their reminding -

re-establishing the rhyming

and I interpret it as loss.

Will my future soon then

integrate

my childhood aspirations?

In a leafy pile

they sit

and when I glance

in their direction

I am flooded by

the heavy drops

of old conviction.

I’m unable to avoid

the guilt-filled downpour -

and I am washed away.

The present is

a vast display

of what I own.

If I could mine my way

to sunlight

I might reclaim the land

and call it home.