Suffocate

White fades to black and day turns to night. Man wants his pay but won’t get it tonight. He sits by the road, looks that forebode, a cloud of mist upon his mind.

Aromas of dreams he breathes his self. No longer need for financial wealth. He floats high away into the sky, never stopping once to ask why. He sighs.

A woman flirts, a baby cries. A man drinks coffee; it implies his heart is sick, ‘cause he never tried. You could see it in his eyes, the breaths of life denied; the light, it dies.

What does it mean, why does it seem, like grass is never really that green? Vanity life, a life of inner strife. Suffocation turns to breath, a once majestic tree, burns to death.

Sailors drown and soldiers die. Money screams a thousand lies. A world of plastic faces and fake, judgmental praises.

The dismal sound of distant birds. A single tear for a hundred words. No rhyme, no reason, twisted treason. Trees in pools of tears of birds.

-Owen M. Whiting