Today

The dead have no place among the living,
among crumbling sunrises
setting
below elusive horizons
seeking a desperate end
to a day repeated in infamy.

They celebrate for the novelty it brings
the unreflective,
raised in outstretched glory,
not seeing how far they’ve come,
only how far they want to go,
not slowing down long enough to be moved.

Never over, never ending,
each day a grind never easing its grip,
as each day increases strength
to whom much less is given
while not becoming less painful,
but more.

This, as a flash mob reprises its role,
the aggregate soul of humanity
creating its own conflict,
tensing in awkward silence,
hiding that we’re all
psychologically damaged.

Capturing no definitive view
beyond despair,
possessing no pivotal condition
beyond hope,
souls linger in lack of sleep
and lack of waking hours
refined by errors in judgment,
having plenty of time tomorrow
to regret them.