Sweat and tears and hard labor
crumble to dust that blows back to sting
eyes, powder hair and choke throats . . .
Under eyes dark circles lurk warning of the
danger that the world will fall, warnings
that fall on deaf ears and blind eyes . . .
If friends were desperate thoughts then
the paradox of it all would be so great it
would rip the world in two and set us free . . .
City lights do nothing but accent shadows,
and so do helpful hands tear the heart in-
stead of mend the soul . . .
Inside, whirlpools of thought drag us only
deeper into the pit of ultimate destruction
of life, which welcomes us . . .
Despair permeates all movements of the
hand, soaks all vision in pools that drip
blood onto the white carpet . . .
Every step brings us closer to the brink
of oblivion -- we can not turn our backs
on it, nor do we want to . . .
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