The feet caress the silenced floors
The eyes delightfully shriek at the intoxicating images that carve the divergent atoms
The fingers dance across the tantalizing haze of consumerism.
We're in the supermarket.

How much can we take until it's considered ****?

We are drowning in a pool of tortillas
Our senses are toiled away from the capability to mindlessly self-inflict
We are penetrated by blissful locomotives

Be practical, they say
That's a mans job!, they say
I am deaf.

I foolishly push the masculine carts
I taste the hysterical white privilege as it burns down my throat into an endless ride of heavenly ignorance.

Insignificant chatter looms over my decaying ear.
The tantalizing haze floods the hidden floor boards,
the stained walls.
The prevarication is located in the detrimental couches.
The blissfulness of your ignorance feeds the self-inflicted smoke of their sensuous cigarettes.
We're all dead.
The instant gratification hovers over the greedy fingers as they dance across their contemplation of sanity.
The platonic conversationalists seek more than the lonesome intoxication.
And I, the flickering light caress the delicate chipped walls.
We're all dead.

The moon casts a luminous light
over my skin.

The smoke dissipates from my cigarette
into the darkened sky.

My palms feel moist
from the grass below.

The sound of creatures surrounding me,
dances between my ears.

But all I can think about,
is the silhouette of the trees

against the cold sky.

Something I once was
            until,
I was painted with lust
         until,
I was splattered with deception

Pure and innocent,
I once was
          until,
I was carved with passion
          until,
I was stained with melancholy

a blank canvas,
I once was
until I became destroyed
with benign severance.

If I a wayward traveler
were to rest my weary bones,
I fear I’d quickly find my name
in a garden full of stones.

So I continue trudging onward,
without regard for my direction.
Eyes forever pointed downward
by the fear of my detection.

Carrying the bags of follow travelers
despite their ever growing weight.
My steps harried ever onward
by the fear I might be late.

I can’t see my destination
but I have faith to keep me strong.
I can’t let my pace be slowed
by the fear that I am wrong.

I can’t say I quite recall
even the way this journey started
but I must have held some purpose
on that day I first departed.

So I continue trudging onward
without regard for my confusion.
This journey is about so much more
than my self-involved delusions.

If I a wayward traveler
were to rest my weary bones,
I fear I’d quickly find my name
in a garden full of stones.