Kate Powe
Contributor
This desolate road
Is paved with lonely souls
Slowly driven mad,
Mad
By this supposedly
Perfect, clean, efficient
World we’ve created for ourselves.
This man made
Madhouse,
Trapping us
In our own weakness.
It is only natural
That we’d all feel hollow
For this is not real
This is not us.
The silence in this city is haunting,
Horrifying.
For it merely acts as a mask
For the screams
Quelled beneath the concrete
On which we grudgingly tread
With our destinies wrapped and pre-purchased;
Our souls composed of lead.
For this is all that remains
When we are desperately searching
For meaning
On a man-made road.
Man-made road
About the Author
