The road gives way
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