Updated: Apr 12

traffic marks the point.

the trusty grated nonsense blurring


we strive and search

without cease

the fires of the engines

flaming with impassioned opinion

virtue falling to second

the babble, a roar

deafening to all who drive

but a quiet exit

with scarcely a note

brings respite

you wait it out

eating your sandwich on the banks of the river

there comes a time


we all just rush past

hasty hand wave


we are lost

we are lost and unaware

of our deathly surroundings

i pick up a pen to let it do the talking

some semblance of life reforms

to trail me back home


we fight ourselves

pursuing the blackest of habits

shunned by the nunnery

sunken into depths of despair

cackling with gaudy amusement

sacrificing the truest of causes

for one

understood by none

the pain tied to this habit

is so unbearable

of course laughter is our only