It is in this heart
that all are one.
The man left alone in
disarray, viscid and nearly insane with anger.
He paces discordantly,
lisping sublime epithets like curses unbeknown to who know not the language of
failures.
He trails and wonders into
momentary thought spells, questioning why did he have to bait his own heart.
The normal clutter of
luncheon crowds scatter talk about jingling cutlery and glasses in one
cosmopolitan eatery, and he sits disparaged by terror at the jarring conscience.
Morality is now
manipulated by machines and coins in a heart where all that art was one.
Once-connected souls
that shed each other’s light, an entranced tool his body has become,
Devoid of yearning and
expectant of yields of emptiness.
What shattering
impotence comes with not knowing why I thought I could change my life for a
future that is uncertain?
Do I walk resigned to this
chaos inside?
‘No one chooses to
sleep in the gutter’ the lyrics resonated on the radio.
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