Ari Newman

Spirals

Burning, raging, fire, quench the fear of a moment.
I reach to hold my destination to my chest–yet.
Gray, broken bodies drag my spine towards the ground. I search for peace among
dragged empires that tumble forward towards uncertain rule.
Tell me, how might it feel to fall? Do you understand the truth of scorched sorrow?
One that bleeds among the worthless?
 
Words swallowed behind bureaucratic spirals of inconsistent question.
Sirens turn circles in the rot that surrounds the oasis of moronic suffering.
Turning.
Turning.
Spinning, spiraling, descending.
The dizzying monotony is sickening.
The embodiment of a transcendental chaos structuring time and the empty.
The fire spins, hot, suppressed rage of misunderstanding.
The self spirals down
To burnt oblivion