Dusty forms mirror the haze in mind
as gusty winds sweep lonely desert
particles into clouds of unforgiveness.

Why is everything a fog of what now
and what next?

When does the break appear… the
one that prolongs the last desperate
exhale into hope for tomorrow after
today’s already given up?

How is it this cup is never full until
life is poured out in cynicism and
emptiness prevails, leaving a gritty
ring of failure at its bottom to be licked?

Who sprayed this sweet whipped cream
of delusion around my lips, creating
realms of sticky logic for me to cling to
while everyone else sees a foaming
madman?  

Am I the only one tasting this
reality; knowing where I am, choosing
my every step, and still utterly lost?