I leave this old thing here on the ground to decay in the sun's light.
It was a part of me, but it has its own atmosphere now.
It is useless to me. I walk away.
Why doesn't it disappear? Where does its disgusting smell come from?
The stench follows me: on sidewalks, in courtyards, to a bench in the park.
I return the next day. I see people walk on it and drive their cars past it. Dogs stop to p*** on it. Nobody appears to notice it reflecting them, no one smells it, no one sees me watching it.
Now old and fetid, but liberated and perpetual; it was a part of me.
It was a part of me, but it has its own atmosphere now.
It is useless to me. I walk away.
Why doesn't it disappear? Where does its disgusting smell come from?
The stench follows me: on sidewalks, in courtyards, to a bench in the park.
I return the next day. I see people walk on it and drive their cars past it. Dogs stop to p*** on it. Nobody appears to notice it reflecting them, no one smells it, no one sees me watching it.
Now old and fetid, but liberated and perpetual; it was a part of me.