vultures over the landfill

an old woman irons shirts,

in the window of a highrise,

under a midnight moon,

a man below screams at the TV,

with a six pack and a foul mouth,

rust and the smell of paint remover,

wisps of hair flutter in a dirty breeze,

looking for answers,

in ideas, sounds, words,

finding only interpretations,

opinions nothing more,

than the bastard children of thoughtless bitterness,

the tap of leather shoes,

move outside a squeaky door,

an ant on the ceiling,

a spider on the floor,

their lives are small,

but mine isn't much more,

just a speck on infinity,

fueled on alchemical lore,

born to be responsible,

to choose the endless chore,

of seeking the Self,

hidden at the core.