Waiting at the End

tin hats

There are no heroes here, in the dark place, upon the black crust.  Walk you say.  Walk where you cannot walk.  Strive for the slope and hope to get above it all.  Fly to a safe clean vantage point, float in your mind, but you are stone, and there is no escape, no home, no warm bed and you have chosen this and there is nothing to be done but turn inward and make the best of a fucked up situation: be alone, be alive.  Deep into your body you grasp for cynical humor and bastardized love.  You stand upon the absurdity of how the world rips apart and causes great pain. All of this you feel as if you are in love with terror and you have dressed it in a kind of light that glows and shows you the way and so you begin to walk along the…

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