Walking in America
Walking underwater from the waist-down
With a head full of quicksand
I’m among the few remaining souls
Left to burst and burn in this wasteland, purgatorial
As newspaper editorials camouflage me in a whirlwind
And the remains of everyone I’ve ever known and loved sting my eyeballs
What will be my grand undoing?
Talking to thineself
As I embark on a quest where free will is His divine’s bile duct
Was all of this at His behest?
And all of the survivors now share a common theory:
Hell is outer space where nothing happens
Heaven is this dreary place- Heaven is chaos
I need some sea and sand and land to curl up and protect myself in
But even if I outstretch with no bullets flying at me
The bugs and weird fishes will probably kick me off their property