wirecutters

the red wire or the green
it’s critical you try to find
a method to tell, sighted unseen
raised colourblind

it might feel like any cord
is every cord (spoiler: it’s not)
when untangling less-sword
this frightful knot

whose sailsmen blowing smoke
tell us it’s supposed to remain
this way; not a joke
but a work of frame

a washline on while to hang, eventually
with accumulating junk
an ever-bending knee
sunk

into divots well-maintained
by copper-wound scarecrows who
(disinterested in pain)
are not concerned for the you

so you search for wirecutters
and attempt to discern
(crowd watches, frowns, mutters,
in the good old that’d burn)

a way forward, sane, unnumb,
without setting that dynamo
spinning in your cranium
a way go to

without going anywhere, not really
and to hell with those who disagree

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