Human Condition

A misty-eyed

island drifting in the sea,

the displacement of us all,

from where we should be.

But as humans

there is no stationary

moment.

We are all blurred photographs,

closed eyes and goofy grins,

tripping over ourselves

as we move out the doors

and frames of polaroids.

We shake ourselves out

like laundry on the line,

snapping in the breeze,

antsy to get away

and fly off,

our wings flapping,

we are clumsy chickens

with a use for flight,

but it has passed us-

so our cars suffice

as we drift across the 

deserted highways

and through 

our own breaking

civilization

as we move on in 

a current driven by

the ever-impending

sun.

This movement

ever-constant our

flailing limbs 

and quick mouths

flutter

quick and 

disperse this 

lonliness of the 

human condition.