Nonsense

Black spit fire on a hot roast skillet

For all its worth, the nothing of everything

In pained flawed existence fuels the rape

Of our consciousness

Through the cacophony that is life

We fall in holes we dig ourselves

And cannot escape from

We wait in paralysis for salvation from above

But there is none;

Only destruction from below and only when we stop digging

Do we realize that we are standing in our own graves

Helpless to the oncoming train

Through our behavior and pursuit of a savior

We lose ourselves

In the torrent of rain seals us in untimely watery graves

Ideals of self, congeal into the realness of reality soup

Again we rape ourselves out of lack of anything better to do

Watching it bend, twist and break

Yet somehow we sit and wait knowing that thereby all we’ll be left with

Is hate

A hate of he self that grows and grows

From a trickle to a stream

To a river that grows and grows

And you don’t know where to go

Folded paper origami dreams

Of lovely self cordoned ribbon in the box of existence

Paint colors on restless leafs

Lover's sheets in passive dejection

Incredible, these words have no direction

Inflection upon reflection

Without the least fear of rejection

We stand conspicuously

Fearing love’s injection

Bleeding the insurrection of passives

Lacking election that reads left to right

On our folded paper origami dreams

Incredible that these lives are without direction

On second thought we wake eternally

First folds make paper into reality

And second folds trite existence’s prosperity

On last thought we forget life's black regulations.

© 2008 Eugene Aarons-Cooke