Shake

Everything’s on shaky ground,
even the things seemingly so stable,
they threaten to crumble
at the slightest provocation,

an interior earthquake of ourselves,
pummeling from the inside out,
promising to tear everything,
if not for the constant vigilance

that in the end, matters very little,
and the streets tell other stories
when the sun is out,
but nightfall gives the truth,

and it’s all some doomed house of cards,
everything frayed,
everything so far into disuse,
nothing is left but the apathy

preying on guts like the carrion bird it is,
meanwhile the sun comes over the trees,
and we’re able to fake it
one more day.



Point of Entry
 
Staring in and
everything’s rusted,
if not non-existent,
and you search for
a way to see in,
a method to assuage the
nagging suspicion that
nothing’s there,
never was,
never will be,

and you look through
windows frosted with
time and neglect,
but nothing is
willing to show itself,

so you walk on to
another possible
port of entry,
but all you find is
flimsy walls,
and desperation so complete
cries for help seem
absolutely pointless,

harkening on to something more,
some sort of machine that will
manufacture a new perception,
and then the world becomes
something wholly different,
but it’s not there,

so you move down the
gravel and dirt of this world
hoping to some day find
a point of entry.