In these days of routine chaos
And the stench of gritty gasoline;
These days of gross consumerism
And bland conversations
About the weather,
I,
I am wracked with a sickness.

In the hours of the day
That fleet past like minutes;
In the minutes of the day
That drag on like hours,
I,
I am spun dizzy by
The skull's own thickness.

The everyday dreams of
The common man that are
lost along with yesterday's
ambition;
The sleepless nights of
The mothers of children who
Work as unfinished puzzles;
The puddles of melted slush piles
Spaced like land mines
Across the crackled sidewalk
Are things that I,
I am haunted by in moments
Alone.