last man on earth
it’s disturbingly easily,
to become the last man on earth;
waking up in darkness,
only to let darkness lay you down once more
the sun becomes a paltry distraction,
another sunday passenger,
shouldered out of the way for convenience.
i keep myself alive on the highways,
of asphalt, information and remorse,
whose lazy lanes are now littered
with the hollowed-out cars of shallow thoughts
and the burned wrecks of human repetition,
all pointing in one way or the other,
forward to naught,
and back the way we came from inertia.
perhaps we press on as shepherds,
my job asks me to care,
and care i do,
a grim responsibility at times,
so none of my coworkers like me,
for when i hang my head low,
a shadow is grown,
of that which hangs above us all–
to be the last one,
and part of everyone,
contact is an illusion;
every day atoms rebound by chance,
as all of us do forever.
it is easy to feel left behind,
when all roads travel both ways,
it is easy to have it all left to chance,
but murder every day
is putting one foot perpetually infront of the other,
on a two ended,
endless, markless highway.
