I kept seeing objects that were all the same,
Little blue/white star shapes
In pale porcelain,
Unshining and embarrassed
And I thought,
Well this is wrong,
Along
With how the objects implied a certain intricacy
Making them the works of a master
And so I lashed out like a volcano,
Thinking,
Oh,
This sameness,
I’ll do it in,
Never imagining
The world to be,
Never imagining
The world that was,
Never imagining
The world within,
A volcano that couldn’t sit still,
A fiery volcano making sounds it couldn’t hear,
A smoky chimney emitting smells it couldn’t smell
For the obsession with the possibility
Of something else.