What of this wild desire to run, jump,

Scream, hide, or retreat

Outside our cage, wherein we are confined

Inside our human mind.

Its forward motion is like a lost locomotive

Barreling down the tracks;

A runaway train whose erratic action

Is far too swift and unruly to now redirect.

Collision stands certain if not soon derailed,  

With only one unknown; the size of the aftermath.

Angst’s vile blade plunges clean to the quick.

An anxious jugular puncture stymies the thoughts as

Bitter blood beats forth from our heart of malcontent.

There comes a conquering wind which descends,

To bring us solace; our last request for release.

This perfect storm was formed in our conscience’s absence.

It is bore to settle the score of a preborn insipidness.

We stand arms outstretched, in our final act,

To greet this baleful harbinger of truth;

It mounts the sky as failure’s deliverance.

Attrition pillages us bare toward complete abandonment.

The remains of the day are laid waste against the wild wind.

It snuffs out the last flame’s light that once freely danced and leapt.

Not a single cinder smolders, nor smoke wisp attempts lift.

What was sown is now reaped, our plight has now peaked.

Not else stands erect save the empty echo of silence.