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Concentrated thoughts
make up this young man,
Begotten and torn.
In a world of refuse and
differed minutes,
his wings ache for more
than these slurring skies,
for more than this tired earth.
His wailing and moaning
come in intervals-
falling leaves,
slowly,
into destruction.
His eyes,
film reels aching slowly in
the night.
His feet liquid-
faint sounds come forth,
but not enough for life or
progress.
No resolution in sight-
feeble slurring skies,
dry cracking earth.
------
Loved ones, reach out to your children before they are swallowed up by the idiot box.
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Spectacle of parents 
