Forests of flesh
Daily,
live bodies cast shadows
upon the path.
Whispering doom,
they run around,
to catch the bus
to nowhere.
Daily, in this desert of unkindness,
I stroll away
to the land of oblivion.
They follow, quite rootless,
the breadcrumbs of yesterdays.
Some cry,
as I cried that morning,
on the bus to nowhere,
amid the forest of flesh.
It's safe to cry there, children.
These trees have not yet learned
compassion.
These trees will not cause your tears
to ripple.