A. Protruding veins from my arm bulge
limitless with potential.
Why then, do they drop me here?
Befallen by a moment I care to question;
Moment:
why hast thou forsaken me?
It answers.
The sun beams.
The wind blows.
Nothing.
B. The trees rustle eagerly
to and fro in the distance.
The young day envelops the world
with warm yellow sun.
The contents of my guts
whisked away to the fiery depths,
the sewers of iniquity.
The cadaverous dungeons
of ramshackle extents
for which we are all destined,
alone?
A squawking pen with nothing to say,
So many thens in paper cases on display.
A goosepimpled arm for others to behold,
An enmeshing mind with other consciences to enfold.
Times seem so strange
in a blue summer haze..
Is this chaos or its absence?
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