anger is a void
i don't know which way to run
every turn takes me in a circle
i round myself to the nearest whole
but i've come up too short
the clock's ticked out of patience
empty space for which i feel gracious
and criminality resides in my mind
a termite with wings
perched on the tree branches
snipping off leaves
to further along the season
futuristic visions of a microscopic incision
somewhere in the depths of me
i come across the death of me
