Indigo

[Querida]

to you all

slippery, little, mess
gasping, acutally rasping
for air too grey.
air that too preys...
upon this snivelling, snip of trivial strife.

it has no fur, no scales, no skin...
it has no purpose
it has no desire
to thrive all on its own.

it cannot swim, or fly or attempt to walk
it just spreads, scatters, slides, slithers
sealing tiny fates.
quite silently,
quite violently,
but does it matter?

as a creator what are you to say?
it's out of my hands
it out of yours too...
it's
out into the world.
it grows, it crows,
it continues to show:
that which we create
we cannot destroy

we could try...
but right here, right now...there is no need for why.
let it be,
let us see...
our lives by then,
will be but dates
in some digitized
archive.