I consider man an experiment, part of one, at the least. We either strive to live with goodness imprinted on our faces or we join the noise of man to make a frown of it. ~ (This is American Diabetes Month) There is our disquieted affection, anemic love of muted hearts, a ditch filled with bones, bleached and broken, like a bomb shelter of innocence, as if suffering had weapons or an award-winning plastic surgeon. There is loathing, arid teeth in search of flesh, a mad beast in a soundproof room, a noiseless hum, man without his reason, stumbling along the path, his demise welling up inside him with grief and regret. Our sickly masks sit heavy, bombs set to ignite in succession with their dreary brightness. A tick tock of wary packages left behind, marking off our unpleasant faces, facades floating along the ailing shoreline, sailing atop the oil-ridden shells of our fluid-like thoughts emanating from low, anemic love in the midst of failure. Noise, the lover o...
(The Weaver's Song)