Those frozen filamentary
White polyps sitting
In the display case
They’re alluring, aren’t they?
Maybe it’s the richness,
Maybe it’s the aesthetic,
But they effortlessly captivate.
Too expensive for your lot.
Cease spectating and continue
Searching for things
Less potently vibrant.
Forsaken are those bulbs
In the display case.
To hell with the hedonism
As it looks from behind the glass.
They could dispose and raze
The world without warning.
They watch and wait to see
Who would wantonly wield them.
White bulb polyps float in liquid.
When you strain it, the coolant
Drains and gets evicted from
A home it had in the bombs.
Then the polyps are left.
If used intently. Harbingers of
Recursive warmth if used properly.
The frozen and stringed tendrils
Of the floating filaments
Snake through the coolant and
Drift up with the current.
As a web, they fan out and latch
To the sides of the display case.
The gooey antennae magnetize
To your hand if you want them.
Sticky fingers slowly slough out
In search of simple comforts
To stave off the starving cold
And mend sudden supernovae.
They want to be in your hand.
They reach and want it so badly,
You’re so close, just behind glass.
But it’s too rich for your blood.
Stringed hands search for you
As you walk past the display case.
Coins in your pocket jingle
As you walk away from the polyps.
A victim spared. Lives saved.
It won’t be you to take the blame.
Though it is a shame. It’s not you.
Then it must be someone else.