The Sickly Feel of People

Three hours before prom, flowers wilting on the pool table, damp with melted thoughts, images, ideas, promises. Sagging with stereotypes, narrow-mindedness; smothered beneath faux living and soggy with the sweat of disgust.

No, there are none here. There never will be any. Here, empy--empty, save for clouds of dusty air, dancing briefly through the scattered beams of light, shafts slipping through cracks and slits, gaps in the blinds. Blinds that won't open because the hands have forgotten how. Or won't open because the masters never knew bothered to learn.

It's always too late to wish to have never been born; it's always too early to wish to have been saved by death.

Yet, I hear of no One wishing to live.

& I see no One caring about the flowers.