to worry, I am told—
no need
to feel shame
or guilt after all, since
every time we
bulldoze over
something that was beautiful,
we know
that something useful
is bound to be created—
a need in the abstract
is concretely filled.
And honestly,
it's a sentiment with which
I'm prone to resonate,
as I've known
the same premise to be true
in reverse:
I have grieved
for every second
which I haven't spent
in daydreams,
since I've sensed
that something
voiceless
but equally
magnificent
has probably just been
staunched and stripped
of every bit of lifeblood,
flattened and paved-
over—too jovially
killed.
