Patterns

This is something we can all be proud of
A small part was the first to fall off
A small part that just scraped against the ground
Phone in your disgust
Feign your cold dispair
Encapsulated with the black void air
Lie in a coffin and wait
for the world to begin again
Ancient Position
I’m stuck here in this ancient position,
the world keeps on drifting away
Ways in which I’d fashioned an image,
sinking into the muck or rising
Envisioning a fire scorching the chance
to redeem or to see this through
Erosion pervasive continued formation,
a landscape forgetting the sun
It gets wrecked through the plumes,
I can’t quite get there
to collect ruins or survey the damage
All that is left are well-worn ideals
Details on distance unseen,
seen through the photographs,
highlighted expressions
in symbols behind for the next one
This isn’t a vision
as much as it is a commentary
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