Where A bouts (A poem I wrote on a typewriter at age 18 circa 1998)

The landfill, scattered through territories,

Territories where rats wander in packs,

The last needle dropped with a slight echoe;

Leaking disease of social injustice,

The veins are hallow.

The veins swallow another participant;

Student of the landfills’ ways,

Drowning in the simplicity of a souls’ silent change,

Simple thoughts become possessiveness,

As a maniacal commitment ends in a fallen recession.

These massive cycles, the trifle of a living crisis;

The eyes sense the death of a living dream.

So it seems,

Little is the worth of tomorrow’s desire

Another wandering soul enters the fire.

Engulfed in treacherous laws;

Crushed under the power of the landfill’s claws

Taught to lose hope,

As destiny cries for a simple awakening,

Crawling in the shadows of towering walls

There is no escaping.

Falling in the darkness of forgotten times,

Heat waves enter prudently into an empty cast,

Who’s last scream intervenes,

With the sounds of thoughts clashing

In the path of a tortured soul’s past.

Some bask in the silence of a lonely laugh,

Covered with the fallen leaves and spring ashes

Ashes silently falling upon the comfort of a mattress

A stained mattress where a meal laid rested,

The forgotten feasts where thoughts vanished

Like the spirit of a lost being scattered,

In empty bottles and syringes full of agony.

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