I see this menacing machine on all sides, biting at the grit it can't chew. And I see you there, hiding in the shade of a family room table once used to hold your gin and tonic with some dignity. It's claws are cobalt and of industrial grade variety, and you know this isn't a movie scene for the younger generations.
I'm on a beach where the water never makes it to the shore. It curls upwards and lapses back into a familiar current. The salt catches the air in an ecstasy that can't be measured between the troughs. I see people trying to relate to it's embrace like the sand which cradles their feet is only a temporary solution. They wish to get washed away but the weather is not complying with the rules of a sustainable government.
Empty and open we aspire to be, reveling in ancient reverie.
Sometimes it's that or resort to the sadness completely. There is no way to gauge our thoughts in an animalistic ritual. We can put that aside. Let's mean it when it is said and tear this wound apart with dirty fingernails and a fever for flesh. You already know that they know you know, so it's all covered. The outer face is always ugly, burdened with the years of denial fueled implosions. From there, the walls get closer few and farther between and you will be able to see the machine, in all it's fucked up glory. Look it in the eyes and let it analyze every figment and pigment. You both are afraid of the same thing.
