Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.

Dreams of You

I found myself

standing in an empty room

filled with broken

glass,

where once there stood

thousands

of

people, whom

I had known

or admired

or walked

among.

The shards

twinkled in the

faded

light.

I stood

in wonderment,

confusion,

alone in

my

inequity.

An illusion

had given

comfort.

How I

revel

now

in the sharpness

of the shards.

Each one

unique

in its shape

and

beauty

Deadly,

if I were

to

but move.