Wrong Way
 
Every way is the wrong way
when living under the
endless powerlines of a world
that would much prefer
you kept yourself to yourself

until you finally bow out,
at which point the universe
will gladly reclaim you to the
carbon scrapyard of existence,
and who knows, maybe you’ll

sprout a tree through your skull,
or house a family of rodents,
lives only slightly more
identical, monotonous, and pointless
as your own,

but the standing under all you’ve known,
the ozone flourishing just above
the sunbeaten terrain,
cries of continuance are weak,
and only half felt at best,

pleading to a sky that gave up caring
so long ago, your ancestors
knew no more of hope
than you do, and you feel this
world receding, leaving you with nothing

but a barren blacktop,
humming powerlines,
and a couple of signs
that will forever remind you
that there is no right choice.