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.
