bleach the truth right out
and level it with wrong
make it not who or how
or why and what but only
about feelings and then
in a world without spores
even mold cannot survive

There was a gentleman

He was sitting on a park bench
not too far from the edge of the
busiest road in the whole city.

The sun was low in the evening
sky and there were vagrants near,
if I recall correctly, scratching for change
and drinking out of little brown bags.

There was a wind that picked up
and it pushed on everybody, tugging
on hair and clothes and bags and
everything, even if it was just a little bit.

Suddenly, that man’s hat was plucked
right from his crown, and in the flash of
an instant, the wind had carried it under
the uncaring tread of a passing car,
flattening it to the brim.

There was a sigh
and the man stood from his park bench,
ignoring the vagrants and turning away
from the red-orange bulb hovering just
above the buildingtops.

He started walking then, perhaps
towards his home, or perhaps to purchase
a new cap.
At least it didn’t rain that night.

What time collects may be a trivial dissection of my erratic life- but there is no coincidence to the second or to the leaching misery it disburses- stingy and slow- that I may not even scream a havoc or claim outlandish horror. 
Sum up the hours and bear the loathsome sight- the big picture is a crash scene. Count and check if we can assess and gather our lives under a same disheartening label; a human experience ?
Heaven or hell who cares? The worm is a coming, yet all I can do is eat my boots and the laces too. I should have just latched onto the void of inexistence, but nobody said it was going to be this way…