Thursday, April 9, 2009

On disconnect and modern insanity

Flecks of gravel fly
Whisked by wind
to mingle with the dust
boil to shrapnel
assault in the name
of a name since forgotten.
Here a lone cricket can alight
to drink in the unholy draft,
Blanched and barren as ruptured fossil,
Timeless as a stagnant tomb.

Here there is how without why,
A lens but no eye,
a reservoir drained dry,
mired in a quarry of
angular echoes,
content to unhinge
to shovel and bury
the thinning threads
of recognition.

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