As the river formed
By the rain
Creates casualties
Through the creaks
Of the streets

And the birds
Swoop down
From the clouds
To have a drink
From the new
Source of life
That has sprouted,
Purified by
the indigestion
Of the planet,

I find myself
Thinking past
the thoughts
And contemplating
Upon the never ending
Spiral that sits
On my kitchen table,
Rotting with time,
Not being able to move
As if it glued itself
Unto the wood,
Obsessed with
Making me roam
Around the room,
Turning it into
My own personal
Psych ward.

What a way to live
In this age.