each day passes as the last
and the next.
a sea of bobbing heads hobble forward,
sure of purpose,
unaware of the doubt that guides them,
the cement of perceived sanity they walk on.
forever on a quest for reason and truth of purpose,
a path strewn with the waste of past,
lost dreams spent,
run over by reality and left like roadkill,
to dry in the sun.
rhythm, sound, light and motion,
permeate blankets of warm metaphor,
that which we accept to be reality.
we stride forward in kind,
step by step,
whittled down to a single file,
toward a black hole of expectation,
hope and desire,
the hammer of reality awaits
to crash down upon us and reveal our innermost,
crimson bright and chunky,
spilt out on the slaughterhouse floor.