I dream of an auburn mist
that billows from Emerson’s stacks
choking the sun bruised daisies
that writhe in agony on their backs.
Winter is just around the corner
my ephemeral empathy is dying
they’ll be dead in a day anyways
so what’s the point in crying?
I really see no point in it,
grinding my aspirations to dust,
tossing my demeanor to the wind,
leaving my smile to hopelessly rust.
And it all swirls in circles,
through the winding caverns of my mind,
slowly settling at the bottom,
of this horrible weekly grind.
I hammer my shaking fists,
as I sift through this hellish muck,
screaming for those dying daisies,
betraying my cynical lust.