The concreted ribboned,
lexus express winds its way through the chaotic, quixotic
of the days charging toward the new millenium.
(I don't know why)
And through the tinted windshields
of the darkened eyes of man,
the horrorgraph of our troubled times,
shouts its angry message
at the nebulous minds of the listless, listening mass.
(They don't know why ...)
And the bezelled dials
of the diamond faced watches
wrap gold around the wrist of ben,
and the desperate quiet of the mind is disturbed
telling time, telling lies.
(He knows not why )
Good women get leukemia,
some children die and the micro-managed
minutes of our lives pass on as we run
haphazardly into the pool
of blood drained from our unknown souls.
(Who knows why?)