a lost sense of meaning

the things that
define us
are the same things
that confine us

a series of
paper dolls
faces contorted
in abject misery
fluttering madly
in the rain

the rough blades
mindlessly slice
creating more souls
in this daisy chain
of self awareness
to scream as one
as we hurtle faster
into incomprehensible
states of dismay

it has been days
since sleep was more
than a passing phase
lackadaisical forms
reduced to pulp
squirming miserably
on the asphalt
bemoaning the clumsy
scissor work of fate


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