Dust blowing about, tossed recklessly by the wind,

Screams wafting up from somewhere,

Set in a place far from here by the memory,

All these things welling up again

Crying from a hole in the ground.

Remember this is not a place for men like us.

It is no country. No home or welcome mat.

Running behind your reckless breakneck speed,

Falling below pace of your own footprints,

Sailing the sea and praying to the sages,

For maybe just a moment to yourself,

Hear the birds singing your lasting song

Of nothing.

The statues rising and falling along the shore,

Pull along your last livid thoughts:

Gears clicking and inner clockwork

Drape the backdrop to this voyage.

Running along the shore:

The man you once knew, once saw in your reflection,

Is running from his past, trying to run the border,

Mend his wounds, start over, escape the haunting tune.

He doesn’t remember this is not a place for men like you.

It is no country. No home or welcome mat.

Antihero gathering: A collective tragedy forms.

The audience in you follows the plot trails,

All leading different horrors and criminals your way.

This scene culminating before your eyes

Thrusts you forward off your aching feet.

Your face is thrashed against the wooden bow,

But it isn’t the bloody gash that awakens your realism.

It was that man chased down and bloodied,

Tied to the mast with eyes pried and pinned open,

Made to watch the coming storm,

Made to watch the horrors he so oft enjoyed.

It was the man you thought you related to

That died and spoiled your movie.

And thus a trail of donor blood spirals in the forest of denial;

Extraterrestrial symbols float down along drafts of mistiming,

Confusing you as you discern the visions of your past.

Then the eye passes by and the maelstrom sucks you in.

..
An abrupt ending wasn’t so fitting,

So primacy-recency was founded.

Standing over a hole,

Familiar screams waft up:

Your screams.