Rage does nothing but wither
in the garden wall
still beating
as if it were actually alive
and not Lot's wife:
turned to salt.
My altar of anger is ash
and smoking embers,
reminders
of the heart I used to call mine
that breathed with desire
to change the tundra around it.
I was going to do so much good,
and now, look at me -
a walled garden
of dead things,
slain idols I worshiped
in my sleep,
dreams of revolution rotting
like rosy corpses
as the undertaker
wakes me up just enough
to suffocate from the dirt
of my own inaction.

I am weak-willed and nothing -
I die and live as a whisper
spoken between the grim reaper
tending my grave
and the grass growing from
my decaying soul.

Standing outside the broken window of life
Breathing In the poison, feeding on the strife
Crooked perspectives, singular views
Pain or numbness, which ever we choose
Dance, or play the music, either way the same beat
Watching the world die, bitter tasting treat
We watch, like spiders, weaving our web
Spin it out with words, views of life's flow and ebb
Feeding like ticks, off the emotions of others
Be it their actions, or smiles of fake lovers
Empathic designs, binding together
All we, watchers, into forever
This broken window, through which we all stare
Gives prysmic views, though never a glare