The boy sits in
A corner, looking at the masses
Swirling like tidal pools that
Ebb and flow at the beck of the moon.
The constantly shifting social strata, a wasteland
Devoid of geographical fixtures or landmarks, only a
Sinking quagmire of loose
Sand.
They joust and parry on the arena
Floor, attempting to stand on water and
Air, the myriad of tiny ants
Are lost in the teeming mass of flesh
As they scurry about their
Non-business. Multiple
Possibilities played out, rejected, and discarded like
An old leaf from a tree, used up to be
Cast upon the ground and abandoned. All in
The blink of an eye, each leads to a different
Path that could end in joy or pain.
As the youth gets up to leave, one last glance reveals
The same scene.
