Linchpin

Dead men lie in gutters because no pedestrian cares to look.
Instead, they travel and persist through and throughout rotten, pussing membranes,
housing splintered shells that vacation inside of anorectic moonlights.
They breathe the placid, oscillating air, shouldering it in and savoring the taste
of a world well won, the sound of the cacophonous and of the blood curdling.
The gamut of human emotion allows for some blatant misinterpretations
of the stalwart and of the blind, but yet, throughout the subcutaneous, paper-thin expanse
that consists of love and kindness, there seems to be no direct marker so as to
stimulate the aforementioned sub-emotions.
The mind and the heart – contaminated from years of indoctrination - beat as two
opposing factions, both poised on the disintegrating boundary that is their own ascendancy.
But yet, inside of every facet of humanity, there is a solid response towards change.
A steady percussion of positive thought, swimming in a pool of reaction and
moot consequence, disguised as genuine overcompensation.
A collective can create and propose, breaking in and amongst the overbearing and silent,
forming an absolute purpose inside of the uninitiated wales of lesser creations.
Every one, though, is weak and they choose to accept each of their own weaknesses,
even if the majority equal out to the direct interpretation of the term 'nuisance'.
Trepidation chains them to inactivity with rusting, serpentine shackles
and blankets their eyes with powdered concrete, spines eating into the crackling.
They examine their own wretched feet and the path set out before them,
while the dying and the dead scream out from among the gutters, pleading for
just a moment's attention, or a single, wary eye.
No one ever cares to answer.