The sense of no solid ground beneath you
No compass to tell you where to go
All questions lead
To no answers
Blank stares
Into dead eyes
Lack-luster hair
Framing a giant face
Unable to catch your breath
Every once of modivation
Passion
Energy
Laying like lead in your veins
Sinking lower and lower
Clinging to you bones
Clawing as it sinks
Into your feet
Cementing you to the spot
But there is no ground to attach to
Only the black abyss
Swallowing you whole
As the chill sets in
You feel a far off heat
Radiating comfort
As if you were
Sitting beside a roaring fire
After staying in the cold too long
The sensation of another
Through all of the pain
Caused by chaos

Cynicism*

Urban(e) smells
suffocate our human(e)-ness
struggling to remember forests,
but still sparing with ghosts.
^^^
We use to howl and rage,
even dance at the Moon -
cursing its phases and
orangeness.
Now we only nod,
that American ****** nod
as it influences our moods;
rationalizing our ability to ****
everyone, everything
different than us;
allowing us to watch indifferently
at Gaza ethnic cleansing
as phosphorous explosions
replace both sun and moon.
It’s like watching small birds
hung by their necks
swinging
like ornaments
from brown, barren trees,
thinking: “Aaah, this must be
post - modern art.
See how their eyes bulge
and their wings droop just so
in a compelling, nihilistic sway.
Haven’‘t I seen something like this before?”
Yes, there has always been
‘strange fruit’ dangling from
the grand vistas
of the American scream.
^^^
But today,
they say  -
“We can be proud to be Americans again.”
Oh goodie!
But where is humanity in this?
And will humanity ever see the forest again?
Or dance and howl at the Moon?

Aztec Warrior