Futility

What will stop the freefall of his mind?

Will it be the thick vines wrapped like scared fingers

Around his grey, decaying brain stem?

What of the feeble mass of thoughts pulsing deep within

The network of memories, broken feelings, and swallowed regrets?

The flowers blooming in the canyons of pink and grey?

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Is it all pointless?

Futile?

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The vines snap, crack, splinter, and fray until nothing remains.

Nothing.

Nothing to cradle the bundle of soft nerves tucked in our

Treasure chest of bone and cartilage that hunches

Around our frail dreams and whispered thoughts,

The deep ache for a quiet place to rest.

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Futility.

The obsession of man over purpose.

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Along the way to the utopian desires hope gave way to fear,

Dreams fractured into ugly nightmares and bulletholes

Dotted the canvas of young flesh.

Wandering footsteps turned inward to draw infinity signs

In the black sand of a foreign, forgotten beach where the moon

Does not play and the dreamers cannot sleep.

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It never stops, does it?

The hunger for man to indicate that nothing matters in the end.

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Sirens blare off in the distance, carrying a body eager to

Dissolve into a corpse and a mind numb to the choice of living.

Tires slip, metal knocks against metal, and concrete curbs chip.

Buildings fall and good men taste the silver of a vengeful knife

Across their tongues as it slashes, cuts, and dives into their flesh.

Somewhere, someone is crying as an infant dies.

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Does it have to?

Matter.

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Silver Serpent Books

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There is a longer post about the theme of futility and why I personally dislike it on Silver Serpent Books, so if you are interested, it's linked.