I like what I read

Funny how so often
we see red

At what we read

At what we hear

At every experience
our insides become our out
or is it the other way around?

Not a bright, furious Red
not one that fills us with a range
charging about with mayhem on the mind!

But almost.

The rage is there, only subtle
Rather than accept our sensory experience
it becomes mental, so often compelled to commentate
it seems we are

So often from here we go
charging about, creating mayhem...
confusion in the mind

The compulsion so regular, as if we believe
the world would not function
without our response
we the engine of all
no wonder the fear of death...

And yet all this action, this chaotic
call and response...

Creates a boiling,
there are more of us, then there were,
chaotic call and responseing...

Society itself becomes the kiln

We are left, to turn, to crack, or...

What pleasure there is

In choice