candle light, rain outside, the scent not getting in
Thoughtropolis is we
A farmer said to me
even strong mental anguish can be a long long suffering
still-brown-black and derelict
with closet door about the neck,
one somewhat traveled yet not quite wet
lapping up same tired tune that drags on and on and on
composed of forsaken years piled up behind the back,
living the myth of being someone’s son,
perceived in frantic glimpses when the mind is lacking slack
Swollen whisperers behind one-way glass
laugh oily laughs and busy their hands,
mass circle jerking to invisible cash
Pleasures deluge the animal towns,
virtue washed to the periphery
and all under the purview
of the eye that always sees