We are a wretched and gruesome thing.
A night of drinking and swimming and fun,
suddenly becomes tense
with the touchy mention or exchange of a few words.
Suddenly fists are flying,
thuds of body shots and the 'ughs' of an *** kicking,
float out into the night.
Like wolves frothy for a ****,
the crowd goes ape **** wild,
oafish Baboons fawning over first blood,
the male rivalry and crowd roar is overwhelming,
nauseating.
We feel small next to the vortex of the mob mentality,
turned graphic depiction of reality.
You can sit in your perch observing,
in comfort and safety, as the the ten seconds pass,
as one brute raises his fists, while the other gasps for air,
cringing on the ground.
Whoops and calls and victory chants,
high fives and chest bumps,
and I feel a lump in my throat.
I'm physically ill,
at the inhumanity, gluttony, pride, and malice
all drunkenly converging in a whirl wind **** storm of testosterone and Bud Light.
Violence, with no cause,
is just madness.

In the train station of my mind,
there are moments,
doors open,
doors close.

There are cars taking ideas as passengers,
in directions multivariate,
and yet there I am.
On the platform, I wait,
Neither in motion,
nor in queue.

I am, however, thoroughly without you.

On the platform of my mind,
in the crevices of time,
I wait.

I long for a home,
merely an idea of true love's redemption,
whose direction is in question.

O how the weary traveler longs for the home,
the home that doesn't come,
for this passenger is waiting,
neither dreaming nor fully awake,
in the train station of my mind,
for an idea, in a moment that may never come.

When will you come home?
Or is my idea of home,
departed?
As you are.
As we are.

On the platform, I wait.