Poem: A Mountain of We

Cut the rot off at the root
mental fungus
planting hook-roots,
mines and traps.
Johnny Apple-Trauma
birthing set-up
after set-up
when every thought hurts
and the typing
just keeps on typing.
It's time for the end
Nothing can justify
this tree
of pain
sour milk, mildew, and grout.

It, too, once was beautiful.

Before distance
and changes
miscomunications
a snag and a tear
in the fabric of "We"
A mountain of molehills
until it is summoned.
Called by our anguish
our confusion
our agony
it takes over our puppet-selves
and our acts are as old
as a thouand years.
Now just two "Me's"
fighting
for nothing
while the Love of Union
lays unremembered
a broken clay cup
on a dusty desert road
behind months of irritation
frustration,
even Fury.