It's currently 4am,
the time when words like
night and morning
are mistaken...
for it is both, yet
neither.
tired moths fly
rythmatically
into the bug zapper.
souls escaping their bodies,
stale light
absorbing their souls.
their bodies fall
painting meaningless
obscenities in the smoke left behind.
corpses covered by dirt...
the grass weeps for thee.
bodies hallow
lifeless...
empty
I am empty...
void of social
dependence,
but full of understanding.
understanding
my pulse is still rapid.
if only I were tired
what an overlooked
luxury?