I'm Writing But Nothing Makes Sense

The last pools are thick like sludge, but it’s all I have and it’s all I can find right now. And I wake to see some justification for all the clutter in our world. Sadly, I watch helplessly as mediocre creations spawn out of the same sludge I now trudge through. It’s inevitable, we are only human. Yet is it so naive to believe otherwise?

"Standing here

The old man said to me

'Long before these crowded streets

Here stood my dreaming tree'

Below it he would sit

For hours at a time

Now progress takes away

What forever took to find..."