beneath me like chia,
a small crunch, and then:
I cannot tell the difference
between the buildings beside me,
taking up the great expanse
with only thought of great expense,
and grass I remembered
has become Kellogg pebbles.
My feet move like my mouth
over the modern wasteland.
No thought. No certainty in speaking.
I cannot stand up for something other,
when my words have run themselves
into watered down paint.
They are a paintball in my chest, growing harder,
like the sun grows dimmer,
and progression becomes
cut down trees.
I watch, ignored, as the world reverts;
spinning into the 1950s
until seeds of hope dry in my throat,
and my words are husks when I speak,
the problem being turned into misinterpretations
about how all life is beautiful
Lauren Edwins is an amateur poet, aspiring novelist, and relapsed chocolate addict. When she isn't snuggling her seven cats and single cat-dog, she can (usually) be found reading a good fantasy novel. She lives in Washington--the state, not the district. This is her first publication.