Tears in mixed concrete

The unforseeable future, prods on worrying minds these days,

dropping down, spiraling round, this mess of a market,

Sellers look on negative white boards that tell the open foreclosures, kicking them to the curb,

broken dreams on broken dashboards, stolen hopes on shattered beams,

Looking around as the currents of information, and tides of discourse run through and through,

telling me and telling you the fear that the banners say we should have,

coke cans lay against the empty streets which speak of emotional vacancies,

and lowly held dreams that reached only so far against the stratosphere,

the people go out in droves searching the bins for food, for such is the life of the freegan,

when it comes cut to the chase, and the red light turns green there and off they go,

like rodents in a electronic modern cage, so is the life of the postmodern man,

cycling on and on between action and emotional passion, between vagrancies , and unspoken abominations,

that light the skies like the northern lights, and the fireflies that come out on the cold winter nights,

walking distantly amongst the cracks of this mixed concrete, he spends another day on her,

not knowing how much he puts in and if she cares,

another fight on his doorstep, another slammed door shut, another broken vase by tripped impulse and anger,

that rips at his soul,

another night ends in drool, another tool in his statue like hand that rusts with the coming of the rainy weather,

its these passions, these feelings that overcome us, this art of talking and silence practiced by men, and the tears we

mix in our concrete of effort that seems to be thrown as waste upon a scattered heap, burning in infamy,