Poetry

Countdown, 13 (354.)

On the twelfth day of something,
it’s always the twelfth day of something,
technically,
unless you’ve gone back in time
to the beginning of things,
in which case,
it’s only the first day of something.
Anyway.
It’s not the twelfth day of the holiday
I’ve forced into your minds,
and I apologize,
because I realize it’s not the only
holiday out there,
and I don’t know much about other days
and the saddest part is I’m
not really a believer,
not anymore,
but I celebrate this particular holiday
because, by the gods, my whole family does,
and despite leaving that religion behind,
capitalism has a power and a fervor
all its own.
I want to break free,
but at this point,
any holiday is a great reason
to slow down,
to take things easy,
and to just catch up on all the comfy stuff
I’d like to do with all my time.
If only
money were not a factor, eh?
We could all make clothes
and grow food
and build shelters
and write stories
and act in plays
and voice animations
and draw whatever we want
and paint when we feel like it
and trade all our crafts and goodwill
and just be genuine
and converse for real
and discuss important things
like philosophy and spirituality
and why we think foxes are foxes
and learn at our own paces
and smile at our neighbors’ faces
and let the land take back all its places
and love ourselves
and love each other
and love life,
for the rest of forever,
praise be.

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