He took the series of images as a bad omen,
He whisked up the dust
From ache soaken boots,
From a long painful journey,
He crossed through the desperate world,
This world which is confused,
This world that feels the burning scent of chaos,
The world that has birthed the unknown,
The world where reluctance begins at birth,
The site of a cosmic reaction,
Far growing,
Yet we haven’t left the dark ages,
Where the horizon beats constantly,
And the tides roll in,
And the only ones we have to blame are ourselves,
We curse and spat,
In each other’s eyes,
We’ll poke and ****,
With itchy fingers,
Trying to unearth disaster,

What had become of the lost November?
Where are they?
Where have the people that understood gone to,
Where is the Bukowski voice heard,
In this day and age,
Where did the true humans go?
The spirits still chant and riot,
Glowing in there,
With a mistiful, sorrowful song,
That I will never get to know,
Different times,
Different filigrees surround different lives,
In these trying times.