he never once cried to mother
until that day
from the stone floor
from where she would not hear him

“please fix me i need a fix
pluck the hair off my forehead

i miss the lighters flicking in the distance
and i was never selfish
just in a world of my own

oh and mary
i miss mary”

i met a man while train hopping
would you sell me your laugh
he asked
in exchange
i will write your life story
as one that people will want to read

he winked to beckon me closer
you know,
there’s no desire in omnipotence
a man could go mad
among all the easy questions he said
until then we’ll demand easy answers
to tide over the sadness

so what’s a smile
when the lights have gone out

to god and those it may concern

as i float about
within your ever vast essence
i feel caressed by time
kissed by light
smothered by thought
and disconnected from you

in truth i only seem like a bad person
sometimes convincing myself of it as well

and while i compare
my actions to my thoughts
my thoughts to my desires
and my desires to our reality
my desire will drive me to act
wilting my body
leaving it for you to rightly judge
my altered reality long behind me
how i miss it

a promise that i can not afford to break
i will not lose you
i will not lose me

suns and daughters

you see us

were counting the drops
on bus windows
that gravity had it’s way with

were drowning out the distant cacophony
of a hundred kitchen appliances

and when we achieve a totalitarian silence
we can ignore ourselves too

you see

were living in our differences
obscuring thoughts
censoring words
and gifting language
to its natural form

you see

we know that it was
the single parents
that bred a culturally sterile generation
to be raised by billboards
to be misunderstanding
and to be misunderstood

still we can not blame the deceived
or the messenger

you see us

we are the suns and daughters
of a hedonistic blindness

cr1100 existentialist character prose

The train tracks were empty yesterday, the day before and all of last week as well. It was a mixed blessing at best, for she has come to rely on the first daily 7:39 freight to wake up and without a dream shattering roar it was harder to find incentive.

The now empty tracks continue past the apartments back porch to beneath a nearby overpass where recently the homeless have been gathering to seek a niche of shelter. Economic recession was proving to be their golden age, with plenty of opportunities to scavenge what’s left in the piles behind failed businesses and store it beneath the overpass. Winter was coming and the mutilated trash cans were burning high. It used to be that while coming home she would stand at the opposite entrance to brave the possibility of an oncoming train. She would then close her eyes and run as fast as she could. Once, she joked that she was unsure of whether she closed her eyes in fear of colliding with the train or rather, in hope thereof. In light of recent developments, when she approached the tunnel today she plugged her nose and shut her lips. The putrid dense air smelled of what she could only discern to be a mix of beans, old man smell, fecal matter and dead wet dog. It left her feeling an odd tingle much like the subtle after effects of being punched in the nose. She wondered how anyone could live there.

As she made her way through the tunnel she was followed by jiggling change receptacles. The ones with more chutzpah and the ones with more creative stories continued as far as the canopy of the torn metal overhang atop the back door before giving up. She played with the rusty lock while shaking her head politely and then closed the door making sure not to let anyone in.

She felt sorry for them, which only lead to feeling sorry for herself when she realized that there wasn’t a cent to spare. She was working for the man, with most of the proceeds going to another. One of the men was Richard; he owned the thrift store where she sorted clothes in the back for chump change. The other man went by ‘Silk’ and refused to respond to anything else. He called money ‘the joy of the modern man’ and in exchange for it, he would provide the girl with the joy she called hers. Her joy came brown, bitter and powdery.

Silk was all business and could tell when the slightest bulge in her pocket was a bill. Upon noticing it, he would not relent until it was his. Silk’s pushy nature coupled with the fact that he worked right near her front door made it so that crossing the tunnel was still the preferable option.

Three floors up she lived behind a door that slammed with a squeak which she compared to that of a penitentiary. Upon entering she wondered how it was that indoors she was colder still. The walls of the apartment were covered in water stains which she had turned into her version of art using some markers that she had stolen from work. She brushed aside most of the papers on the floor locked mattress in the bedroom and sat down. A little while ago, about when the trains stopped running, she broke her bed by standing on it while trying to reach the ceiling with the tip of a felt. She was attempting to turn the sordid wet spot above her bed into a sun which she assumed would help her wake up. When she broke her bed, after relocating to the floor she found that not much else was different; she still woke up to a cold breakfast.

Sitting on her bed she emptied the contents of a paper flap into a spoon, spat and proceeded to heat it with a lighter. A pull, a poke and a squirt later her pupils shrunk to the size of the dots on her skin. She was smiling again and thinking of how suitable the name ‘Silky’ really was. She exhaled her existentialism and her eyes closed to better see a better life.

708

insomnia

i battle with thoughts
in a valhalla
that i created
while living in my own
abandoned house

today
is just like any other day

the first breath stolen from the morning
chills my alveoli
the november frost
travels through my bloodstream
warms my heart
and is excreted sighing

a mirror will tell stories
of sanguine eyes
drenched in blood
from dreaming

those same eyes
still choose to ignore it

she broke her bed
after relocating
to the floor
noticed that
not much else has changed
she still wakes up to a cold breakfast

to capture a moment

on my way home i notice
gravity stricken leafs that rest their respite
atop frost stricken bushes
in a medley of earthly tones
that is early november

your words
always
arrive in waves
and i appreciate you
as a break in monotony

ive come to love the uncertainty
that translates to freedom
no longer am i a prisoner of infinite choice
but rather
free to explore my wrongdoing
at the pace of autumn

these are just words
and we feel just emotions
and by the time that we perish
we will have just died

don’t listen to you
if it’s all just a story
and what he just told you-
well he just lied

all words are just words
and he’s always lying
and the dots on your skin
multiply in your eyes

no princes or princess
or sordid tomorrow
just life and your mind
and we still feed it lies

bab

recently it seems that the world has been so depressing that it’s funny;
fall is here and just like every vancouver october
obese gray clowns bleed from the sky
their essence pooling in the streets
wetting my shoes and spreading disease

i see them each morning when i walk past the mercedes that line up at the lights

the trees noticed this too
and accordingly shed flakes of flesh
to decay in the streets
they gave up for their winter
yet i’m trapped in mine

fuck illusions of happiness that are vodka club fake tan weekends
all i could ask for anymore is my off white powder grit blanket
that i’m setting in flames to tomorrow anyway

i traded my life for a list of names
three actually
within are more than a thousand names
and aliases
yet only one matters

thank you

the waves

we are the waves
we whisper at the surf
in the silence of night
and shriek at the

unfortunate fishermen
when it storms
we lift the mermaids
with all their bounty

to the jagged cliffs
where they will
meet their demise
on the vertical shore

like so many lovers
and so many of us
we breath salt
exhaling into the air

for you to feel
a mile away
and reminisce
of us the waves

Lavender

a dried sprig
gritty to the touch
crumbles instantly

weak bonds
release what’s left
of their scented soul

pungent odours
awakened by the fall
announce themselves

these grays reminisce
of a darker violet

and little the frail people
still cling to their tree

misanthrope

step one
yes i have a problem
its not anyone’s fault that the world
gives cynics a loaded gun at birth
or that book smart street art
inspires me more
than any modern hero ever could
you see
the hole in my flesh smiled
like my lips never have
when i fed it
just before i turned around
to feed you lies
these pointless points
should not be my world
but inside the glass bubble
it’s all i have left
until it turns back to sand

my 2012

the modern day philosopher
sighs through her nostrils
pays for liquor with pocket change
and refuses to whiten her teeth

late in the evenings while the world seeks it’s consciousness
she paints pictures of oceans with her words for me to drown in

i once asked her
what colour the line is between greed and what i deserve

it is the only colour that authority can see
she responded

and what about the colour that my skin will turn
when i know ive had enough

she smiled and told me that it doesn’t matter

its never enough until it’s too much
and when it’s too much
well
it’s too late

if i could just
restart again
ten year long paces back
id gladly walk the thousand miles
it took me years to track

id leave my memories behind
and start each day anew
forget each lesson that i learned
and not remember you

its always been so clear to me
how im supposed to act
yet heart eats brain,
and veins collapse
no matter how compact

so burn my bridge
and take a bow
wave me your last goodbye
im leaving now
forth east horizon
beneath yesterdays sky

dopamine

this artificially lit cement set scene
to the latest record of hip and run

in the alleys where i argued
that ignorance is not normalcy
she convinced me to no longer mind living
yet i still can’t wait to die

while strolling among the finless sharks
single mothers packing gold plated pistols
and gray air ascending into pink clouds
i cant help but want to break all my promises
that i made to this city

the pavement can hear my heart beat
it can tell when i’m nervous
and will rise to trip me

whats a little lost blood between you and an imaginary friend?

I’ve already forgotten
but
I can’t remember what..

The precipitation trickles down the glass
accentuated by the midday rainy grays
as the cleft in the window mints the air.
Inhale,
exhale.

At the peak of my serenity,
my memory wont surrender a thing.

Walking among the bookshelves,
I slide my fingers across the spines
before finally pulling one at random.
Ironically,
I choose to read at the arboretum.

The storm intensifies on the panes above
as the metal support creaks and cringes.
These words are senseless to me,
just small black printed pictures
on gritty tan eighties paper.

Lightning strikes;
A cumulonimbus flushes its anger
over a city where people are
shopping, fucking, sleeping, talking
and trying to remember.

In closing the book I agree to give up.
I place it back on it’s proper shelf
and wait for the sun tomorrow.

shuttereye

i knew my lives in glimpses of moments
posing
waiting
keen to see my interpretation
of their emotion
blinking to think in between
i would analyze their smiles
before permanently inscribing it on my memory
to be torn and refreshed at will

just words

rays will pass viscous matter
to make use of the room
where we watched incense burn
and if only they knew how
once they affected my speech
the words were thrown around
mystical
whatever
love
waterfalls
and poems
lines written in cryptic verse
to muddle the true meanings
as to not scare away those
who will never understand

i’m looking for anything that is not something
or maybe for the light to refract differently
on day one of many i’m still peeling sun burnt fingers
and fate and luck are still whores
and a liberally written FUCK stares back meaning nothing
and dvd’s whir until further notice
and hector is still innocent compared to us
and tomorrow is neck deep in ands
and i wrote a list of what is left to care about
and concluded this page with it

beretta lament

bid farewell to the pain
the frost on your skin
and fears of anything sharp
although the jealousy remains
incurable
with your eyes wide shut
and no pupils left
you feel yellow,
then caramel brown
and finally fade to a singed black
gritty on the edges
that you press with plastic
demanding more from life
than you deserve

now here I am
I’m that again
and then tomorrow too
beneath the shade
Venetian blinds
I sit and think of you

MILFK (mother id like to fucking kill)

a fleshy skinless marionette
with sun strings tugging serenade
most selfish writing I have ever read
indulgent in his own charade
despise-fed limbs emerge from marble pots
once seeded fertilized forgotten
wont ever see or be like she
has in her mind then coyly so begotten
ejaculate has marred the land
mementos beg their right reincarnation
look at the monster that’s emerged
from but a simple abomination
my vision thins your effervescent skin
but times are headed sunrise due
and fate has made her choice cut clean
we wont survive, but then neither will you

wednesday

slow day, the drops on the wall
so cyclical - and Aristotle once
behind the backs of them all
predetermined the fall
in our heads and our halls
though irate so they seem
some still protest the dream
apparatus in hand
convert proxies to sand
incandescent horizon
of our ozone depletion
scraped the dead off my skin
in the vain of accretion
the post modern of talent
wreaking darkened finesse
colour blind isolation
forgets our loneliness

not that it matters

a stork brought me
two doors down, they found their daughter in a cabbage patch
mr. Swenson was bought in a store
and Lilly’s parents refuse to share how she came to be

still we are all headed down the same hollow tunnel
(some running) until we see the light
in the darkness we freely love and hate
since there is no need to follow through
they’re but emotions anyway

the mind parallels the universe in it’s expanse
flowing sap through modern social veins
the only difference we can make
won’t be noticeable until it’s null

why not

an old zebra
her dim aged stripes
she stands looking politely rustic
inside an indoor field
what once flowed slithers
and everyone is yelling
she’ll break her own legs in a week

hendrix, morrison and all those dead at 27

with the passing of the age of aries
comes a longing for the unknown
we looked for it at the arcade
we looked for it behind the computer screen
in your pants pockets and in your pants
we looked for it on the pavement
between the cracks
and even that awkward
dark
overgrown shimmy below the cabin
now we hope we haven’t missed it
and this is not something to procrastinate
but I think I will find it tomorrow

a poem

this (like every other poem)
is just as useful
as words on a page

sunset on a centaur

Now although no one knows why he let the bullet float past his temple, I like to think that I understood. We were crowded in the same off-white afternoon-orange room, breathing deep the dust that misted around us and made the sun tangible
when he looked at me all distant and asked;
“Would you please pass me the pistol?”
First, as though it were just the word for itself, he played with it. He ran his fingers down the barrel, clicked his teeth on the tip, and even smelled it to see if it showed signs of use.
Then, with the smallest most meaningful smile (as though playfully) he aligned the end with his ear.
His fingers quivered,
then fired.
Those who were not paralyzed with awe recoiled. Some faces were crying while others went ajar to release acoustic emotion. Mine was blank while his was still smiling.

There was no inquiry, no autopsy, no mystery; he had been talking about it for years. Just the smirk on his face, that he aimed away from in vanity.

msg (a modern sonnet)

walled in by all these shiny shiny words
then told to breath this circulated air
she drew a line to run along the hordes
a solitude beyond what one can bear

we’d meet on full moons every second fall
and think of it meanwhile in between
my cells regenerated at a crawl
after they had been stolen from my twin

once waiting at the perch (three buildings high)
my blue veins dropped as they untied adieu
a serpentine display came tumbling nigh
they criss crossed in descent towards askew

what ends may never cause a single pass
though I may find the body in the grass

february 29

it all feels mystical
going out howling at the moon
my cry is like no other
just like everyone else’s
this, the longest month
of moonless skies
deserves a lavish ceremony
with recession resources
ignite
etch my name on my hand
etch my name in the ground

a profane memento

we stand crowded in a room of smoke
inhaling when no one looks
my alveoli tingle and are sustained
until you blink again
a rush through my veins
that reminds me
of the days when I fed myself
only to have something to throw up

I remember you cheating once
you were looking me right in the eyes
as wisps of it streamed into
your throat and nose
then out the pores of your skin

we all get caught but you wanted to
I didn’t look down because I was afraid
to see a smile

post jurrasic

the mighty arms of titans swing at the sky
penetrating the silence in triumph
and down in the land of men
blood makes the grass grow

tonight the seas will storm
the mountains will shake
and a calm dawn will weep
in woe for the grieving deities

humans rejoice,
freshly smelted iron
cuts into a new era under any rule
we will die at fifty all the same

red sixties

One can’t find beauty in a sequel, but you’ve heard that before.
I’m lost in thoughts of moments past; you sit there wanting more.
Well if I’m just a fraud, and you’re naught but a broad
then I guess this is where we belong...
An immaculate cell of inaccurate hell,
where I am the one who’s done wrong.
For here in the temple I will sear myself blind
and with tongue to the floor, leave no fresh dust behind.
Then when the current runs out and the prism fades away
I’ll secede for my daydream in a sordid decay!
For when all the stars form a line to ask a penance of soil
the mountains dig back in the land,
not a man will be worth half his weight in your oil
or a dot on the map on my hand.

the indian blues

Pour back the bitter tea
still waiting for yesterdays news paper
which then too was irrelevant
but by tomorrow will be vintage.
Tonight though, belongs to the pen!

We long ago accepted our differences -
the world and I,
yet a compromise pleases no one.
When I was told I will forever remain a nobody,
I smirked
and etched a circle in the ground around me.
I decided to become art.

Please close the doors on the guest
for it is not his time here,
when I am sitting to write.
We know him all too well;
actually we know us
which is really just as bad .
Call him back when I need a muse.

If I go out tomorrow and don’t mean to come back
have someone water my books,
throw glass on the floor
and ignite the wardrobe with the mice still inside.

That will shut me up.

sweat on a white mattress

I’m sorry I’m the way I am… is all I’ve left to say,
and never will I smile again as I did once in may.
The kiss, the bliss, the eyes I miss -though I have made them tear;
Never again will I be there, in your heart to hold dear.
At least I see things clearly now,
and know what to avoid;
I’ll grow and learn and persevere
yet in my arms - a void
remains, its shaped like you
and always will I feel
a passion burning,
scorching me, for I still find you real.
Tonight, (like every other night)
I ruined worlds with speech,
and just above my standard
you’re floating far from reach.
If our paths cross,
and gazes meet, then maybe even hands
I will know then that all is well and trust our own amends.
Though hollow inside, they so seem,
I claim them to be true!
My words that I once uttered loud;
I could one day love you.

Cairo AD

When you held rust,
I was rust
and the summer sun still bleaches the grass.
When was the last time I slept?

Auletes, my one true love,
the past few millennia have been kind to you.
The ravages that took their toll on our home
only made you softer
and warmer to look at.
Still, the Greek army amasses at the gates to our city
bearing steel and an ardent glow in their eyes.
The men are hesitant to assault our holy ground,
but it won’t be long until their thirst for passion
overcomes their fear,
then our gates,
then our city,
then us.
Blood flows through my heart, beating to the rhythm of your words, and I implore you;
Do not let it colour the street.

I think I just woke up.

beneath a blank blank sky

Mother, I said let me in!
Its cold out there
and I haven’t any clothes left!

Orphanage dreams are no better than suburbia family carnage,
but what I have is different yet still equally overwrought.

Good night father
and thank you
for stroking my third eye
when I was not looking.

You see I grew up amidst rows of pylons meant to symbolize people;
it was mostly the same except the ways that it was better.
When I bought my first rifle I aimed at the sky and shot down the stars
one by one
then the moon
then the fifteen closest planets
to get a better look.

It took all my wives to put them back
but I didn’t care since
since those are but a heart a dozen
and I needed to visit the city anyways.

I called up my oldest enemy though he was busy, so I took the journey alone
braving the cold
and the transparent coyotes.
The road widened, narrowed, curved.
For a stretch it was so deep below the sand that I got lost.

Here I am now,
settling for the night between a dune and an oasis.
I’ll be etching my life story in the palm trees before I go to sleep in the quicksand.

the life and times of bill s.

Enter skeleton-

Hello Shakespeare, it’s been a while.
Sit down, would you like some rose tea?

No thank you

Exeunt two devils-

kindered kin

could i ever be happy with our ill brought up creed
who bleed the ones that they love
and love the ones that they need
how wasteful
how sinful
how human and blithe
i now often question
if my god’s still alive
why if change is a virtue and your red ink hold true
then my cuckolded pride can long fare without due
but it wont
and ill rust
wind will pick me apart
smear narcotic graffiti
inside of my heart
my fire rains down, and theirs will soon too
we can hope that by then
there’s a lot less to prove

life with an accent

She lived life with an accent albeit she was never sure the which. Somehow she was always hoping on someone telling her.

When she first met him she introduced her apartment where there was never an escape from melody. Silence feels like a waste of time when music could be playing, and besides, musicians are easy to relate to; they sing about everything. No one slept the first night or the second, and no one knew what they did at day.

“I was so excited to wake up, I couldn’t go to sleep!”

She shared how she was growing attached to garbage and how she was afraid her thoughts will never matter, not even in a hundred years. How she once repeated a mistake and now everything smells like it. He just listened. When the rain fell sideways, they sank straight down.

“Aren’t you glad people can’t read thoughts?”

I guess what kept them in there so long wasn’t that they were alike, but rather different. Things like that don’t matter in a hundred years either, so again they stayed up counting the scars until one day he sighed his biggest sigh yet.

“I think it was knowing myself that drove me insane.”

The dust built at the foot of the door until it would no longer open, but the music still seeps through and is nice to wake up to.

fear of looking old

words written on an empty stomach always meant more than those written on an empty heart so why would you splatter my mind with trinkets when all you have to do is starve your soul for just a while

in scene one she walked to the store
narrating her actions aloud through thought
we learned that she was once pained by her family
but then grew up great and returned to seek emotional vengeance
the whole audience
even her family
applauded

scene two had a rustic urban back alley setting
the narration stayed
but with no girl to look at
we grew bored rather quickly

in scene three we saw her blue eyes
her corroded lips
and her father one last time before
she got shot in scene four

on the way out of the theater
no one dared say it was bad
for the fear of looking old

somewhere

between worthless and priceless
lies a sea of men
but most just float in water
until they sail again

vapid in their own desire
not but a single treading squire
would overlook and then retire
their needless urge to just acquire

now nothing floats here anymore
nor carbon frame
nor lonely oar

and the bluest blue above
which offers us
nor pull
nor shove
reflects below and colours water
as to seem
that touching pallid distant blue
is not to leave behind for dreams

believe me or refute my claim
maybe you even heard my name
but i,
a raftlord, can provide
all you could ever need besides,

what more could you need?

575

one more wasted day
that i spend this way – writing
these second rate lines

i need sugar pills

i made them for her special day
and so she wore designer bruises
and in a very special way
she was the favourite of my muses

we frolicked in the city lights
made oh so poignant by the dark
it was the favourite of my nights
except the morning had been stark

id lie to me if i believed it
but never will i see again
its just that all ive left to offer
is a schizophrenic with a pen

Baby Noise

The hitchhikers in cuba line up on stops along the roads
where a trained government official
will direct them
to the nearest available empty seat.
Further north a loud colic pierces nightmares
that seemed like a relief in contrast
to being awake.

I am an unanswered ringing phone

We’ve long outgrown the age where
we name our kids after movie stars,
now were just trying to revive
those dead movie stars

I am spit that stains white clothing

Light taught us all to hate mirrors
they’re so deceptive
and everything is further than it seems;
especially self confidence.

I am the brass keys in a golden bowl beside the fake leather pants left behind by god
only knows who

How can she expect him to pay attention to her
when shes in the same car
talking on the phone
a conversation he’s not supposed to overhear?
Perhaps there is nudity out the window

I am bad bananas and poetry that was forgotten because the pen was missing

Maybe one day I’ll be something.

Tanks

last night i slept on scissors
and dreamt of tanks
their long shafts bellowed and shook as they shot down men
from a distance
while smaller men laughed inside

I would wake to leave the dreams behind,
but their rapid rolling treads are hard to escape in the dark
so I lay back down on scissors
and I dreamt of tanks

push men push the sergeant cried
so no one turned their back to the rolling stampede
they ran shooting metal at metal
and when all else failed
they shot with their blood

the field is nearly empty now
just immobile tanks
sleeping
on a bed of men


______________________________________________________________

last night i slept on scissors
and dreamt of tanks
tanks that showed no mercy to the faceless men they shot from afar
and no emotion to the faceless men within

I would wake to try and leave the dreams behind me,
but visions are hard to escape in the dark
and when every direction i ran in lead the same way,
i sat back down on scissors
and dreamt of tanks

push men push the sergeant cried
so no one turned their back to the rolling stampede
they ran shooting metal at metal
and when all else failed
they shot with their blood

the field is nearly empty now
just immobile tanks
sleeping
on a bed of men

Sphinx

When the sphinx was once lost in a storm,
neither Ramses,
nor wit,
could recover her then pallid form.
Once begotten through linens, and now torn from her place;
it took twelve slaves nine ages to reassemble her face.
They had shined off her mane,
wiped the snow from her eyes,
yet irreparable thaw,
showed her spirit demise.
Now when travelers come, and demand to be asked
what it is they must answer, in order to pass-
The great cat shy's away
and drops one solid tear
an icy cold snowflake
she resents that she fears.
Still in dreams when she rests
we hear liquid within,
by the time the world sees it
its just frozen again.

stanza

i saw him running to catch his bus;
he ran by four passing ambulances
and a firetruck.
in a city of seven billion, one death didnt matter him
and it'd hypocritical of me to judge anyways.

she wanted to know what i kept in my pockets
but only because i wouldnt let her reach in.
i would only zip them up,
when people started asking.

i hope one day they meet

Flower

today i met the richest man in the world
he shook my hand and i shook his before we sat to down to talk.
he was buying me for his home
and needed to make sure i was just right so
he tested my wit,
then my strength,
then my patience.
from what i could tell he has one of everything
packed away inside display containers at his home
the location of which he refused to share,
but from clues I could discern that it is far.
neither him
nor i,
nor the blonde short waitress,
found what we were looking for at that coffee bar table.
smiling politely we exchanged farewells.
no hug goodbye,
i wonder if he is happy.

Devil

I woke up late last night,
With the devil at my bed.
I know I should have stood up but I went to sleep instead.
Last night I dreamt of progress just some that has now ended,
All spick and span precisely, but in no light can be mended.
The change to day was not abrupt;
Too much was on my mind.
All ready to erupt, and leave itself behind.
Slowly following my rhythm,
both sore eyes fluttered to,
and when I saw my singed walls
ideas came, construe.

Assimilation

It came from the skies
Black, red and blue
Landing unevenly across the fields where it would morph and
Assimilate

Slowly it overtook the plains
Scattering the animals
And engulfing the vegetation
The crops
And the sandbag blockades

Towering at the city edges
With resonance it beckoned
For humanity
To join its cause

Faced with death
Or the unknown
It was the hardest choice
Any of us had to make