Streaks of something yesteryear born

still may sit unattended on one’s cheek.

Made were things to use

yet now no light casts down for dust’s sake.

We pass the garbage in search for new

only to leave a slimy trail of destruction.

Making hair twisting screams

curdled by the few who care.

Where do we begin

except to not?

Brash are those born by brash

to brash they will go from brasher still.

A world engulfed by no second thought.

Ha.

What’s next?