Down

Flat landscape rolls out in all directions, steam rolling the flowers of joy that sprout on memories, now just dried out shapes that jarr my head--some geometric, others psychotic; even smooth is coarse. None of them fit my void, no streams to lap my profound emptiness, bring relief. A course of fracture splits the continent I've known into things alien. Lost spirit barely inhabits my faded numb flesh. Sorrow is a sand dune that buries my former architecture: a humanity that now hides its face from me