Cellular expositions of empty souls
circling hundreds of clinics
above the galleries of independence and
the lonely lovers of experimental birds.
Thinking about the future hurts
Because the future is empty for the majority
empty like a home of a deserted lover
which we always become.
Deserters open the door and look at the street of the world
The world which they forgot in all the
literature they misread.
The light on the post glistens of uncaring
orange hues, just like the orange on the
table of her dead boy.
Farther away the empty street follows the
heart you let go, the winding lane
circling the tree
on which lost dreams hang.
The fun in research of multiple
cross sections of your heart
lies in the validity of lonely
And the statistics which risk
To which kids scream on a
While you rip to shreads and
we laugh at what will become