My Dear Dung Beetle,

When old days went to heaven and giggled at old jokes,
The new lights went to the corners and made up new shadows.

That was the time when I decided not to go.
I decided to stay a little longer.
I decided to sulk and talk shit a little longer.
For the lights that loathed no one.
For the shadows that suspected everyone.

When old days went to haven and played poker,
The new lights grew new laments and looked at me funny.

I can smell the suspicion in them.
Doubts like hunger.
And like a good host, I didn’t want to starve my guests,
and fed them plenty.
Until I was corrupted and lost.

How is it that I only lose sense of direction in daylights?
How is it that I can never see pass my shadows in the sunshine?

It gets branded on my skin, the sun.
The sun and her allies.

And I am beginning to see the edges elsewhere,
and not just in me.
Beginning to see the arrows elsewhere,
and not just in me.

“Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,”

Yes, who would knowingly carry on this crap?

You have to squint to see it.
All that light can blind you, my dear dung beetle.
You have to squint to see the skyline.

My dear dung beetle,
You have to see the skyline to know where you are at.
Old days and heaven may linger on,
In pleasure that only past can provide.
But the future is blinding light.

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