I stopped.
The motion of time entangles my capacity to understand.
I am agitated.
It’s sadness that creaks from my windowsill.
I turned to stare from the inside.
The city landscape bares a pity play.
I cannot mourn.
My resistance is my own orthodoxy.
Hatred is selling like hotcakes.
That is what I know.
I am bent.
2011
chester maynes 