Harder

Harder and harder it is to prop up
And stay in a certain state.

The things that I got used to are
Not new anymore. 

I could stroll on the streets I love 
And not recognise a thing

Or just as easily know, acknowledge,
Around the things I know and adore.

I hold a certain state; beyond it,
I keep a wild terrace

Of things I detest. The centre,
It has all the best views—

A perfect vantage point that remains,
When all else moves, reducing bit

By bit to a solitary core. Harder and
Smaller. An atomic origin

Of disrepair, of decomposition—
No less that mouthful of sand

That grits teeth 
And props up a certain way, but a

Differentiable display (as I call it) is
All that really matters.

Dale Chou
2012-11-30