feverish, she rushes across the field
hoping to find something of appeal.
unsure of herself, unsure how she feels
she's reeling and sensing the impending
thrill?
a frigid chill?
stun gun set to kill?
the lines are drawn without distortions,
the rivers bubble
make me nauseous.
the seagulls crying through the din
searching for signs
and looking within.

stringent attitudes of success and distress
make it much harder to make sense of the mess.
make it much easier to regress and obess,
to fruitlessly pick at the festering grass.

lower your anchor in this swampy thick soil
decide to diminish the ego and toil.
work for the good of the one and the all,
all the while knowing, its worth nothing...