On (Myself, Listening to) Untitled 1

No one deserves this.
No matter your faults or strengths,
your side of the scale shoots north like heartburn.
Unsmotherable forces fired by some inner burn.
It wasn’t yours; none of them know where you live anyway.
No reason to feel for any of it.
Yet
Here we are.
Rolling like an unfit whale into spikes thrown without seeming end
a year of spikes to you but a Greenwich group of four minutes,
thrown continuously,
finding their first barbs at 0:23 and 0:44,
thrown from an unfit whale made of bone and earth
Familiar colors on the mast
Fortunes made from draining the oil of this unfamiliar whale
Out of his massive head and into his own fingers in defense of spikes
But light a light on your oil, dumb whale
Carry your spikes that you now own back down to the depths
Where your many battles scar the dark
And flee nothing but your own life,
which forces you up, often, against your will.