KYLE SLEDGE

Driven to distraction, caught in shouting streets
I wander southbound as my soles slide along this rain-soft cement
While star-crossed lovers paint portraits of indecipherable dissonance.
Promenading past the vacant faces, I find myself
Peeling away the layers that have been building for years,
pulling existence to pieces.

Street lights bounce between shop windows
As I reflect on moments of conduits and chamomile.
In live wire electrics and softly unceasing scents
I find nights to be no different than days.
Each are filled with my every regret.
Each are filled with my every belief.
Each are filled with my every lament.
Each are filled with my every relief.

Go ahead–try to sum up life with data-driven discourse.
(You can’t.)
Then tag everyone and tell them the news.
(You should.)
Bloggers, vloggers, pundits, partisans, PR pap peddlers
(You whores.)
Each and every one of us is going to die.
(You are.)
We all go alone from this world to another.
(You will.)

It’s all the same.
It’s a shell game.