Rotting fruit may have seeds that sprout;
the bathwater some sentient life;
in the forest, trees.
Join your rot with arms thrown up
as bottleheads, bobbleheads,
machine operators with baboon tendencies.
There’s no other way.
Peel the skin you show
graft it onto dreams of better days.
Go seeking starlight,
stumble under a streetlight
and right into a ditch of misery.
Is this human condition or tendency?