Those muttering men,
Those men who've wandered the
land lonely and weary.
They conglomerate in the crevices
of nighttime bars and ***** motels.
They wander the streets,

Alone.

The state of augmentation and reality,
Blurry desires, and houses that are never built.

Blank pages drift down deserted days of furloughs and death.

They stare into the mirror,
Look through the pages of the fallen,
And find Oedipus staring right back.