Grey smeared era of the blank eyed

We live in a dirty age;  a grey smeared, grease covered, dingy-shacked, diluted, coarse clothed, rough fingered, muck-filled, pot holed, smog polluted, uninspired, plastic, weak-willed, shallow, selfish, uncommunicative, dead age. We live in the worst of times. Over-inflated, under appreciated, scrambled, aimless or far too aimful, stupid, vengeful, empty, nothing is ever enough. Seeking steps, paths, but too quick to show our escalation up them, half-hearted, insincere, one eye on the money. Slipping stairs, passing paths. Not enough direction, too much hopelessness as this. Death in the sea, up on the ceiling fan, I wonder what was Robbin William’s last thoughts? Too much sharing, social media the death of everything, annoying, stupid, but the truth at my edges burn through. Scabby arms, the ego’s embrace takes you to your grave, living, yet dead. You know. Burnt open edges.

We live in a dirty age. The beginning of an era, we saw the old one out. What have we left to offer? Too many voices. Still the same stories. Some victories, yes. But the mesh of it, the net of it all, decayed, worn out, still we struggle to find light, the chink in the window as we walk home and put bread on the table. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow it will be better. Take it one step at a time. But our age is worn out, transparent, too many open ends. Too many voices. Too many faces. Too much of history. Our age is worn out. Worn away. Aimless or, too aimful. Too many open ends, too many conversations. And even without drugs, what is real anymore? We wrestle with the truth. Hold onto to the muscle of what we recognise. Chew down with our jaws. Searching for something to hold onto. This listless age. This shallow age. This age of fame and noise and hope and… shit. We just want our voices heard, even if we have nothing to say.

Even when we’re useless and stupid and empty and our poor beating hearts are shattering themselves in their cages, throwing themselves against the bars. This grey age which will pass faster than the others, nothing to offer, nothing true, except flickers of moments, fluorescent bulbs blinking in stutters, when we held onto hope, saw the light, the truth of it all, the point of existence, but then we submerged, victims to our brain, our egos, our families, our past, our pain. Old before we know it, dead, memories passing through like scenes on a projector. Nothing matters. Almost nothing.

Blank-eyed, searching for light, wanting to be heard but nothing to say.

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