Under the ribs where pulses thud,
the silver silence of dreams die,
screeching and screaming at the top of their lungs,
being torched like popcorn in a microwave.
The future is a sailor lost at sea.
In a storm,
wrestling the musty waves.
A stampede of elephants trampling your thoughts,
choices zoom at you in every direction.
Like a flock of basketballs to the hoop,
and frolicking butterflies flopping in the pit of your stomach.
