by Atlas Roark

Dreams slip. Knots tie.

Yearn and slide, then

learn to ride, entwined

inside the wildernesses

strange caravan of

focused eyes.

Time crawls, then time dies

like the unpicked fruit

that’s left to wither.

Buzzard swoops, with

determination within her

cautious gaze.

What’s the prize

to be discovered upon

plodding complacently through

the locust’s labyrinth?

Is there peace of Mind

to be uncovered in

the rotting remains of

so many butchered days?

Focused and alarmed,

the piercing eye disarms

the hand that cracked

the whip on ships equipped

for their savage trips.

Jesus, was it worth it?

The star, unfound,

waits underground

unwound yet bound

by those strings that

catch the staggering foot.

Will the sun, that’s imagined

in the evenings, only

wake tomorrow’s grieving

and illuminate the thieving and

misleading drone that buzzes

beside the stones of

the well-planned

barrack lives?

Are you, your Self,

worth more than the sum

of the searing

mass consumption?

Try to see it’s just a

smeared conditioned function.

Miss the lessons of our

global soul-destruction.

And if this seems strange,

know that I am too.

Remember Now, inside,

I’m just like you.

Reach out, and I’ll

be sure to brave

the wave to sit with you

beside deceptions’ grave.

Cut the whims, and

Let’s begin the days

we’ll look back on fondly.

Remember that I still care,

and have hope to spare

for free.

Cause I without you,

is never Me.