abrasive concrete rubbed against bare, trodden feet as lost souls marched to their steady, wandering beat. in that heady, dry air the sound of laughter had long since been suffocated, choked into echoeing shells that ricocheted off of stilted beings. my mind was lost, not healing.

i worked these hands to the bone to find the product,
and i gave this heart to you to find the sum.
look at this world and ask us what we have done?

some might claim my madness,
but have you truly seen mine?
i have walked through the inner workings of time,
delved into the machinations of the mind,
if you could only see what i have seen,
to find god in this machine.

sterling shore, and sifting breeze.
men staring, and eating at their knees.
burning stars, twisted spines, knotted red arms.
black, shining clouds.
under and upon which i could lay down.
i suffer from a wound that does not bleed.
may my darkness crash over me.
and take my hollow body out to churning, eating seas.

i have lived to make memories which aren`t mine.
polluted my body with the substance of thine.
and still i am godless. perhaps, he is busier in every sense of the word.

i think i shall stay here, and enjoy another cigarette in your company. i shall stay under faint, distant stars and rippling stormheads in a foreign land, and ponder my cancer, the genius of Bach and the workings of the English language. perhaps, muse upon the thought of an omnipotent god.

i shall stay here, with just the steady pounding of my false, young breath.
i shall stay here, and think of her in that warm, summer dress.
and then i shall walk inside, to a quiet and lonely death.

i can`t help but wonder, if this is the best life has to offer?