God, this gets old

The solitude is the wishing well for the over-

stimulated

with a brain slowly folding in on itself

we hope for some

Ebola to end it all -

To be the nothing-mush

that comes out the end of that tunnel

serenity, peaceful forests, with the

sweet tweets of birds hidden

from view

that's a pipe dream

that's the beginning

walk down the tube's length

(this without a light at the

end) and

Woosh - flames

forests gone, stumps, burned

flesh, birds screaming so shrill

you can't shut it out

and you remember it so

vividly

your synapses fused in the

afterimage of a burning

Buddhist monk

the protest -

a futile waste attempting

to make it all mean something

but you're stuck in a tunnel,

waiting for the blaze

and smoke

it's inevitable

it's inevitable