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Any Doubt




Can there be any doubt
why we are so predisposed
to love a protagonist?

I like dreams because they don't end:
they fade, segue into another
or, failing that, back into this longer dream
of cohesion

where word and work
effect change.

Willpower and sense,
nothing less.

With its false promise of excitation
to provoke and promote
a precision-approximate
dream without a dreamer.

I don't want to be
a party to
or a part of
that.

I am almost entirely inadequate.

Can I be beautiful?
Can I be true?
Can I be good?
Can I know?

Is “none of your business” censorship?

I've a dwindling belief in agency
removed from the simulation.

Some of my words are from a time (or place)
when it was enough to be beautiful,
before the demands for utility.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.