to those disappeared

white fog, or grey, or black, you can feel it slip away, like water and sand through your fingers. another day at the beach, in the sand, without the sun, black sky and all that disrepair. dogs snarl and kick up the dusty floor of the land, running endlessly in loops and tangents, drool hanging from pregnant jaws.

fumbling through the, i don't know, files, angry cans of paper and mist.

diet soda will buy you everything in this life. like a hopeful stepfather.

and still we stand here, in that wash of grey, so true that white was never seen at all, with busted megaphones, throats as raw as the devil, hides cleaned and stacked in disparate order.

and friends can't be found(simon and garfunkel)

and all the plastic science can make can't hold all this troubled water.