Eight Thousand Eight Hundred

I gather up the small white globes
by the pairs, counting eight thousand and
eight hundred blinks, beats, and bleats.

I’ve saved these as I’ve saved my allowance;
to buy candy, a new toy, somehow freedom-
that which would never be bought.

and here on this mahogany mantel
I’ve managed to collect quite an agglomeration
of a sure mixture.

Will they find me gray and mute, sprawled
across the blue carpet that I once died on before?
Colorless and blind.

Will they pry me open like a dumb oyster
to find my pearls?
By then, the blood will have already abandoned the body.

I walk in these clothes, day after day,
unremarkable to the passerby-
nothing to see, nothing to see.

My eyes have rotted, do you see?
The white globes are the only vision left,
down my throat. Down my rabbit hole.

Then will you see the triviality?

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