Words, empty phrases, brushes with truncated handles and stiff bristles, how can they paint a picture that evokes  genuine emotions? Dying flowers mixed in a bouquet with weeds and thistles that contains only dusty decay. I am weary, weary of lies and hypocrisy, smiling lips and empty, gelid eyes. So inured to the vacuous word, ‘brother’, uttered with all the empathy, depth, and insight of an ampersand, all the warmth of  winter in some ice bound northern land. Cliques and coteries, tribes and clans; intolerant of differences, stagnant and inbred. The blind leading the ignorant, all happy to be led. Circling in on themselves in a desperate attempt to remain unique while celebrating uniformity and eschewing critique. Why am I trapped in this stifling room? There must be a place where the sun still shines and roses bloom.

© 6/4/2007 T. P. Woodfork - Revised 7/5/2008