These things,
they float into my periphery
the faces, the places,
the everyday mundane
and added together
can weigh less than
a cement feather,
and mean so much less
than the bleating wail of a white cat
before the storm of apocalypse
yet we are prisoners here
sheltered not by land
but by a vast open expanse that
seeks it’s own end
through the drive-in stare
of a dead-end nightmare
so i have to…
i have to never know
that the faces and the places
are not cold
if i am to ever stay here
if i am to ever
grow old.
