The Sight of the Blind

I am frozen in this midst.   This being the everlasting need to get rid of the uselessness.
As the catastrophic fantasies that we make up for ourselves consume our thoughts, and
I suffering through my own am useless in attempting to alleviate the pains of the sufferers.
For how can one who is screaming on the inside from relentless self doubt, hope to offer
anything of value to another seeking validation for some sort of conviction.   As they muddy
their feet and leave track marks on the carpet so that you can follow.  And what are you, what am I that follows the track to save the dreamer caught in a cast trap even though I am within arms length.
Then, a sense of deja vu.   As you glance about the room and feel the shackles on your own ankles, and the rattling chains that drag like Jacob Marley in Dickens tale suffering to wallow in self pity.   Then on the other side of  a garden of dying lilies the illuminated smile of evergreen rains that sprout up the buds to flourish again.  And I in the midst.   Everlasting stares through my uselessness, mistaking my bearing witness as a taking part.   And the dreamless lullaby never providing enough slumber.  Tip toes across ugly shag carpet from the pages of my own history.  Emerging through the pages of the catalog, buying the toys, the gadgets, the junk that will alleviate my mind.  Until I look up again and spot the wounded.   And I, nursing my own infection stumble forth like a sickly puppy hoping to find a distress to disperse.
I am, what I am.  A sufferer, suffice to say a wanderer.  With bare feet like a hero cop, top floor of tower building, and trampling through glass.  Grunting the pains away and being ever close, but the script lets loose, and the pages blow away and I'm an actor forgetting his lines and failing to improvise, and the scene collapses and the people are watching.  The people, those evergreen droplets always rejuvenating the floral arrangements before I can even reach with my watering can.   Useless but not motionless.  Useless but not determined, useless but not silent.    Used up, slinking on, tossing one side to the next step till at the bottom stair.  The final tier.   Sitting and waiting to be picked up, hoping to be brought up,
up to a higher stair.

Empathy Entrance

I am a simple sort of person thinking on a million problems all at once
because all of the solutions seem so simple.  As I ponder upon the issues
and take on the battlements it is a peculiar thing to feel the heartbeat
of my enemies.   My sight is transfigured into a thousand souls and I hear
the thoughts of a thousand men, and I am overwhelmed by motives
I feel the inching predicaments that will lead them to their graves.  I
forget that I am not to care for the blood of my foes, I forget to pray
for the souls of my friends for I see them rise up over the trenches
muddled among each other and confused that they are one and the same
and it is a curious thing to observe my depression take shape in the half cocked
smiles of dead men.

Interesting Endeavor

What an interesting endeavor
to sit and wait.  That anticipatory moment
just around the corner waiting
in return for your relief of an embrace.
In what other way do we concur
the doubt of wonder, and in no certain
terms where do we go when the light
is burned out.    A chair, the epitome of a throne
that is the necessity of the world weary.
In this calamity of our day to day
do we even begin to ponder what sort of beginning
we will even begin to see.  

What an interesting endeavor
to a have that disposition of awaiting the time
when the world will never give up
its grasp and sanity will return to leadership.
When high backed furniture refuses to levy the world,
and gives it a predisposition to imploding.
Do you hear the incessant qualities in the night
as the vocalization of nocturnal fowl
who about the whats in the darkness.  Because while sitting
in our living rooms we have only determined
to attribute nothing to our existences
but the smell of slow and normalized
decay.

What an interesting endeavor to see
nothing through the lense-less frames
that populate our faces.   Its only right
to determine that what is left is the epitome
of brokenness.   Give into the whim of
desperation and wait no longer
for on the other side of the sofa lounger
there is a buffet of sustenance
that your brain has been longing
to consume.