. . . cities burning
that tired line
of poets and liberals
Screaming to their generation
“Your world is dying,
one day at a time”

. . . Is this thing on?

Always told I’m too soft spoken for my age
Would these words yield more consequence scrawled in red
On some back alley wall for far more tawdry men’s taste?

A little midnight graffiti
And a low wind that smells like smoke

Ursa Minor
by Laela Jean Ross

There is a time I know
Not when I was born
’Cause this world don’t feel
Quite like my own

Just this circumstance and the skin I’m in
Are my reasons for believing
That the world is universal sometimes

Am I too far out?
Should I reel it in?
’Cause I could talk for hours
In circles
About circles
Elipses and imperfections

Flaws in the design
How something’s not quite right
Or at least not quite what it seems

Because we are all impaired
By our own sense of reality
Maybe it’s just the seasons changing
I fear I’m in one of those moods today