Make my way
Around the corner
Of the half-street

Making sure
I check my corners
Spotting eyes
Patting my shoes
Where the concrete
Lays heavier

Than usual

I think this is the place
I think this is where I'm at
But,

I'm so angry, tired, forlorn, melancholic.

In classrooms
Encircled
We debate and deconstruct
The evolution
Of our pasts

If we should
If we can
If we are ready

If we
Ever will be.

There's this beer here.
It gets me drunk
Most days and
I see it and imagine its origins;
The source

Of its trauma.

How desperate man is
To attach the spontaneous ways of nature
To religious prophecy -

A construct of man to begin with.

Just say it:

You want control.

I'll say it with you:

You want control.

Though, it is ironic
For the need to control
Stems from the impulse to project
The internal anxiety
Of they not trusting or believing

They can control themselves.

I am at a loss of my own life
Our own lives.

A collective of the gathered.

And what do germs, viruses, cures, plagues, and vaccines do
When they gather?
For what are we but good, bad, neutral, and complicit?

We timidly await to war so to soon fester.

I see the size of us
In comparison to the monster
From which

We have grown.

I can barely see us.

I can barely see us

At all.