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In scions of sectioned succulence

the anger at loss boils over underneath the skin, and makes me burn with

fury so deep, it aches my soul to realize what i have lost… the fiery

tip of the fear stabbing into my heart feels bitter, but unrelenting as

though nothing will assuage this torrent of nostalgia, for memories lost

by the side of my road… a consciousness locked amidst the swarm as can

hold oneself in be it the cage or safety in numbers buzzing caught lying

with restless eyes blinking out the sweaty stains of the recent past, or

pursuit of happiness cast aside by the modicum of security monied palms

can present when allowed to take charge, life can become a maze of weird

decisions early on enough so that we can easily allow ourselves to open

up to the paralysis when we don’t know any better… the content of this

contentment means little to objective times seen outside of parameters a

guiding light experienced in disappointment, through the worst of times

getting the opportunity to change for something different in a time of a

greater upheaval, and all around me society looks unyielding to my eyes

as that string of life theory sought to solve existential themes no one

can hum along to because very few redeem harmony from those of disparate

elements into cohesion… a valid representation of how the real worlds

of thought can exist as strands or layers, the whispers of which can be

barely visible as time marches ever forward in attempt which calcifies

the cumulative gore of bodies left in the wake of progress, and it does

not matter how many failed compromises are made when there are so few of

the rites as passage required to remake the rituals now lost to us… it

is the will of society to try again and again until there is community,

no regard for the lives tossed aside because once we attain the top of a

heap of reaping what we have sown it is done, and no one will be able to

disparage the path taken to get to that point in the road especially as

we cycle through so many given variables orders to repeat the experiment

to verify the absolute proof to which we can comfortably label in words

absolutely as the truth… a wrench to stop the works of all the monkeys

collected at thousands of typewriters to achieve what only time and luck

allow us to achieve in the forms of a nuclear bomb or freed electricity

to decimate the consumers consummating their wedded bliss to technocrat

leisure class conservation of motion and energy, guerrilla warfare of the

most connected and captivated of the youthful vigor no knowing what they

cannot learn otherwise on the circuit of life and death emphasizing what

the journey means to an existence beyond dead things left to collect fly

hatching exercises in grotesque after the corpse has committed to dusted

winds and material sacrifice to artifice, and dreams no other descriptive

voice can elaborate upon without seeming to be full of hot errors plenty

of mistakes under a belt while remaining receptive to shots fired below

it…