IN A BREEZE
This isn't regimental thinking, as
the wheat and chaff of thought and
mind must go their separate ways.
Here is where life parts from death,
and beings converge.
The little blue car that kid puts here;
he walks away to his final meal,
or so it seems. A saunter unlike
any I've seen before - I think they
just grow them brash and prideful
now. But he is nothing to me, nor
his silly blue car, festooned with
stickers of something, and noise.
Let him go as I retreat, and may he
never come back - to cross my path
or soil my world again. This is all
aftermath - the world I must live in
is the dregs of the pit of the foul of
the stench. Grace has gone, and its
last available bus, just now, is
leaving the station as well.