41 from the podium

Seconds, minutes tick by. A digital mouth moves, another digital mouth responds. Oh, the scripted causalities that occupy our lives. The fires that burn and ache in the deep confines of our chests, our blackened lungs. We choke down thick black smoke of emotion and wheeze in stifled expression. And all that we desire to share remains solely manifested in haggard, coughed up, transient wisps of smoke, barely noticeable, and quick to dissipate in the overwhelming emptiness of dead air.

Dead meaning. Dead faces. Dead voices. Dead people. Dead. Cold. Inanimate. Your frigid fingers. Touch me! Don't let go as I cringe and recoil. Let me shock you with honest reaction, let my skin warm yours, let my very pores breathe life into yours in a silent song of molecular connection. Let me deliver you. Through me, finally be born. You've been dead all these years. A stillborn into a still life.

Open your eyes. Breathe deeply, cry loudly; shed your choking, your gurgling. Live. Move. Feel. Express. Be something. Do someone. Experience. Play. Laugh. Be wicked. Be gracious and merciful. Just for the love of life, be. Your monolithic presence abrades me. The world of the dead is a lonely place for the living.