Is this not death?
The souring of bolus settling its
way into the fringe of my gut.
Air hanging like the noose that it is -
Baptized by morning dew as if to say
"Come on in. Have a little faith"
Street lights take on demonic shape
It's the forever hunt of spotlight eyes
in heat for a soul to mate.
And the faces;
The countless mazes that have
entwined for far too long to form
an improbable labyrinth.
One shoe over the next
Once again today and tomorrow
for as long as the eye can wonder.
Is this not hell?