I saw weeds peaking through cement cracks, and I thought,

"Thank god humans could never bury you, Mother Earth,
Even if we tried."

I gazed along the leaves and long vines stretching out for sun,
And my eyes landed on a small, pretty, yellow flower growing too.

I looked to the sun and smiled and back at the flower and saw
A fly had landed there, washing his paws.

And then I wondered if flies ever wish they were bees
and instead of living in ****, wish they made honey.

A pocketful of doom is flourishing
ceiling to wall in my cranium,

and though I tend to the tantrum of it
with fatherly, nurturing discipline

it acts as a nebulous cumulonimbus
fog seething with diffusion of void,
breaking through every window of warm

out to the inside I tend to become

an accidental abuser, flailing teeth
into over-ripened words, knocking
unripened fruit from the bough between us.

With nerves like coiled snakes in an apple,
prismatic minds are dulled to a fractal
of their former spectral rainbow
when expunged into the shadow.

Thorough rage—event horizon
clawing sides of deep depressions,
cusping manic at the fervor—

when the cliff becomes the shackle
of the neurosis-fed darkness jackal

open demise toward the mouth of the sun
and perhaps tongue at infinite light.