Ghost town inside of a crippled city –
like a carcass in war-torn streets, made commonplace by the normalcy of tragedy.
Pages, like autumn leaves in murky waters – thoughts and words of a people drowning in the unclean fall-out, cascading down from gutters, trickling down from the top –
viscous in its deception, thin in its pay off – a double edged trickery, a fool’s oasis.
Pages…the written word, the well formulated argument, face down in this despair.
Intellect, thought; a silent drip in a dank cavern, rusted over by the elements of apathy and arrogance.
Soggy wooden bookcases – barely holding themselves up, slopping remnants of imagination, crying the last of a dream onto the all too real cold of a forgotten cement floor.
Pages…history eloquently and painstakingly recorded, categorized and appreciated, only to be ripped from memory, misplaced and morbidly repeated as its lessons lie covered by the oil slick of missteps and chemical run-off, sickeningly swimming with sewage in an openly closed atrium, once awash with the smell of old books and fresh printer paper…
The most deadened echo – reverberating off of raped and stripped walls, baring a foul nudity, scarred by the idolatry of greed, pinned by the steel beams that once supported, abandoned by the minds that once thought…here…anywhere.
Forgotten – pages – ideas – ideals.
Is dissent the only path to knowledge…knowledge that promotes humanity over ideology, truth over promised lies, a drop into a mind’s abyss over a tumble into a fool’s oasis…