There is no part within us

that really works.

There is a hitch

In every cog,

And every wire poisons to the extreme;

Jumps to a conflict at the start.

There is never an end to this rewound craze.

-

We are all tangled,

And even the detached—

cannot understand.

No one can,

and all the philosophy of the ancient world

Is rendered useless in our scream-stained faces.

We turn purple, and hit walls with balled fists,

but there is always the rebound, the hateful recoil

that hits us back just as hard. (maybe even harder)

We foul the air with our words

And kill the nights with thoughts;

And the time is whiled away to nothingness—

(no extermination)

It comes back to haunt.

-

And this coral weaving through my lungs

burns;

The polyps infected

With heavy-lidded sorrow and the sleep

Of no resolution.

The argument is a beast

A nameless one, one with too many names,

One we love too much to let go of.

It goes round and round and round

And this top won't stop spinning the evils;

We forget

that there are such things as heroes.

(even with all the comic books we read)