Infantile

There was a time in my memory

That holds no weight

Battles were waged with purpose

Claymores rose and fell into crimson rivers of carnage

Those days have died

And we have fallen grey

In the incessant evening

It was a memory that I was never a part of

Cars rolling along aimlessly

Some of them with their lights illuminating the road

…Many more without

ambiguity remains dissolved in constant smog

Exhaust seeps into the cracks of every fortress ever constructed

And they stand as ominous figures upon castles of paper

Claiming each was a paradise scribbled in ink

Carrion-eaters refuse to gyre in the sky

Preferring to indistinctly saunter in our circles

Waiting for the mistake to fall like freezing rain

The excuse that they cower behind

in black-on-white automobiles that illuminate the already lit world

in the haze of flashing blue

willingly, they all lack headlights

outward exerting a blatant exhibition for the inner, vacant core

waxen molds whose hands gesture wildly

if only anything could grasp the matte in their frozen eyes

they could not understand the voltage

that can be expressed in the moist caves that man inhabits

as they wander incessantly

for a place called “home”