I can’t think my way out of this madness.
The sick stairway that steps on me,
wet with red gore, to slick to walk,
dark, but leaving just enough light for all to see;
The sidewalk that cracks under the weight of
bodies bursting from the bottom up.
My writing is not enough.

Now the strange fruit
does not hang from trees,
but seeds the ground of fake enemies.
Propaganda and war mongering for profits
people acting like peace loving costs us
our safety; Logic will not save me
from that darkest realization.

My flesh does not own me.
Death is the only thing that has claim.
Thus, every breath in between
aging and dying is wasting,
Becoming
the dark tasting bitter bile
the black brew that stews
And ulcerates my soul.

I have no faith
only rational lies
that I used to tell myself.
But despite my wit,
how I commit
these words to such a grand purpose,
I only see the landslide coming
sometimes rotting and slow
other times crimson and fast.

Half a reflection finds my face
Malformed.
Eyes born
to see more then the morn.
Skin ready for the warm storm
waiting for the salty rain of tears
to cleanse my anguish to vanquish
said darkness,
but the gloom within
matches the doom without,
and I have very little doubt.
My certainty only sees destruction in our future.