Let the dams be damned and ameliorate this famined land.

Upon what hills will you take a stand; amidst what turmoil will your integrity begin to disband?

Our resolve weakens, our countenance grays, yet a force continues to uphold our inner constitution. The nature of numbness raises doubts about whether it’s life or us that we should be praying about.

Unsure, we forget to let it out; no words pierce the silence, no vibrations ripple through the air.

We aren’t even sure how much it is that we truly care. We’ve moved passed the point of wanting to rip out our hair and rather have begun to embrace the catatonic stare.

Becoming increasingly less aware of what our left-hand does as we observe the ramifications of having lived a one-sided life for so long, dependent and trusting only of the right:

What good are either of these sides anymore? Where is the animosity of division when everyone’s poor? Rather, life’s questions confront us with more intensity than they did before, pestering us to decide some sort of answer to the question: “What is life for?”

Yet, no answers come; only noting how keenly one has become of observing the rising sun and how quickly it seems to run back into the shadows from whence it comes.

A repetition set for an undetermined amount of iterations – the next question becomes: “What have I done?”